


The Heart of the Journey

by Valandhir



Series: The Raven's Blade [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 225,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valandhir/pseuds/Valandhir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The paths are set, all leading into the Great War, but the path is twisted, the answers are changed and the past shadows the steps of those who dare to face the Shadow again. The journey is coming full circle, but where does the circle end? Rated M for violence just to be safe. Like with all the stories before; this is a mix of book and movie canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What a serpent knows

 

  


**Prologue:  What a serpent knows **

****

Summer, 3018 TA - Edoras

****

The golden hall of Meduseld was warm to  the point of being stuffy on summer days, and Gríma disliked that heat with a passion, there were not windows to open and the main doors could not be left open all day, no matter how much of a relief it would be. On days like these Gríma nearly wished there was a summons calling him to Isengard – anything to get him out of the warm hall would be a blessing. But he had only returned from Isengard a day ago and he would not dare leave again so soon after, or it would be noticed. Prince Theodred and his friend Éomer had already taken to dogging his steps more than he liked. And while Gríma had the ear and a certain _influence_ on King Theoden of Rohan, he could never predict where the moods of the Horse Lord would swing eventually.

 

To make matters worse the King would not retire early tonight, for the very simple reason that there was a formal visitor in attendance, even as he would be gone by next morning. Boromir of Gondor was not a guest to be disregarded or relegated to Theodred’s care alone, albeit the warrior might not even mind such treatment. Gríma was well aware of the fine line Rohan had to walk with Gondor, while they were not liege people in the strictest sense, the land they dwelt on was part of the Kingdom of Gondor, granted to Eorl the Young by Steward Cirion, and that made them sworn allies of Gondor. Which demanded a certain decorum and politeness towards the Steward’s eldest son. Decorum… the very word would have worried Gríma as most of the King’s household was incapable of it, but luckily Boromir of Gondor was a warrior who seemed to take the welcome he received well, and was tired enough to not expect much else.

 

At the moment he sat opposite of Theodred on one of the long benches, their conversation just loud enough to be followed by Theoden, who had not said much to either of them. Gríma gravitated closer to listen in.

 

“I cannot share any more of my errand, Theodred,” Boromir just said, his arms leaning lightly on the side of the table. “all I can say is that I have to leave by morning to find the ancient Elven Kingdom of Rivendell – they were old allies of Arnor in the days before the Witch King and I hope that Arnor’s survivors can help me find the hidden valley.”

 

Gríma did not pay attention to what Theodred said, the young Prince was too amazed, too taken with the great warrior to say anything remotely useful. No, Gríma considered the words in the context of his own plans. Saruman would certainly be interested to hear that Gondor was trying to rekindle old alliances to aid their failing war effort. Gríma could not calculate how many fighters the Elves still had left, no one had seen an elf in Rohan in four generations, and as far as most Rohirrim were concerned they were fairy tales, figures of legend. What concerned Gríma more than mystical figures that might still care for this world but most likely did not, was the endeavor of Boromir of Gondor. To reach Eriador he would have to cross the gap of Rohan and then turn north, along the Greyflood until he reached the Great East Road.

 

Usually Gríma would have not cared either way, but today he remembered theprevious night – only one night ago he had stood in the darkness not far from the Fords of Isen, concealed by the shadow of a few Alder trees. He had waited for a messenger from the East, like he had done before when Saruman deemed it below his dignity to consort with the various couriers that came from Mordor. Only… last night, last night he had stood face to face with a Black Rider – with Nine Black Riders – who had questioned him on the goings on in Rohan and on two words; _Baggins_ and _Shire._ Without lying Gríma could swear he had no idea what a _Baggins_ was, beyond a reference to an ancient type of waterskin, which had not pleased the Riders at all – but _Shire_ , was a word Gríma knew. For years now he had been the caretaker of Isengard’s vast stores and there had been a weed, a leaf of sorts that had been traded from the Shire to Isengard in larger quantities. And thus he had told the Riders where they might find said land, high up in the North at the Western Border of ancient Arnor, South of the Hills of Evendim.

 

The Riders had been satisfied and ridden on, passing towards the ford of Isen. And here it was – his chief calamity. If Boromir of Gondor rode the same way by morning who knew what illustrious fate, what calamity of the road or what other stroke of a merciless luck would make him catch up to the Nine? And if he did he would be killed, swiftly and without a chance to escape. With any other traveler this would not concern Gríma, but Boromir’s father, Denethor of Gondor would not let it go, he would ask questions and Saruman had warned Gríma time and again that Denethor had the gift of foresight that he would see things no mortal should. And if he found out about the Nine, he would learn of Gríma’s true allegiance and all because Boromir of Gondor had to ride to the Elves. Gríma had mastered the skill to sniff danger from the time he was young and he knew that this smelled of disaster. “If you will forgive my interruption, my Prince,” Gríma addressed Theodred with a bow, a small nod extended to their honored guest as well.

 

Theodréd turned, looking at him. “Certainly, Gríma,” he said, like always he spoke politely. “What is it you wished to say?”

 

Gríma looked at the young face, Theodred was so young, so full of potential, he could be shaped into a marvelous Lord of the Mark… it would be a waste to lose him. Though he was not that much of a warrior – he luckily had a crude cousin for that. “I seem to recall an ancient ballad of our people – the Ballad of Eofaine and Egil – that describes an ancient road coming from the East, crossing the Anduin south of the old Framsburg fords, crossing the Misty Mountains and leading right towards the fabled elven kingdom.” The ballad in itself claimed that Eofaine had travelled that way to find help for Egil, and Gríma did not need the reference to know that the Men-i-Naugrim led that way, but his people had a tremendous memory for legends and songs, so it was the best reference to use.

 

Theodred’s eyes shone. “You are absolutely right, Gríma. Thank you – I did not think of that.”

 

Boromir looked up at Gríma standing only a few steps away “I know that road is in most old maps of Wilderland,” he said, raising one hand slightly opening it in a gesture of not knowing. “but those maps were mostly from Isildur’s day, who knows if that road is still there, or if the pass across the Mountains is still open?”

 

Gríma did not need to answer, he could see Theodred had taken the matter to heart already. “The road is still there, our people have some trade with the Menfolk living upriver, the Woodsmen and the Beornings who dwell along the great River, and they in turn have trade with people from the East along that road. They even claim that they trade with the dwarves, not that our traders ever saw one of them. But the old road is still there and it runs across the Mountains.”

 

The Gondorian’s mien became thoughtful at hearing this. “If that road leads directly to the kingdom of the Elves it could spare me much searching and travelling across the empty lands. What way do your traders take when they travel north?”

 

“The path is dangerous, it is not much more than a bridle track on the eastern side of the Anduin valley, and passing Gladden Fields is dangerous except in High Summers… but on your horse you should make it past that place long before the river rises.”

 

Gríma watched and listened as Boromir and Theodred discussed the details of the route along the river and he slowly relaxed. The Lord Captain of Gondor was a reasonable man – he would not take to a wild search if there was a perfectly reasonable route to take. Inwardly Gríma decided that he would need to report back to Saruman within the next few days. Something was stirring – the Nine crossing the Isen and riding North at the same time that Gondor would send its foremost soldier the same way – whatever it was, it had to be important.

 

TRB

 

The High Pass, Ten Weeks later

 

Boromir’s hand closed more firmly around the reins of his horse as they approached the narrow, V shaped valley that the road ran into. The sight of the Mountains alone was daunting, having grown up in the shadow of the White Mountains Boromir had enough experience to travel in the heights, or so he had thought. But the longer he had seen the mighty chain of ice-capped peaks draw nearer the more he realized that there was no compare to the familiar mountains of his homeland. It was not just that these soaring peaks were much higher than even Mindolluin itself, they were also different – the ragged sides and rough valleys were wild, there were hardly any traces of settlements, nor had past populations left their traces on the steep hillsides. There was something lonely and wild about the Misty Mountains that compared to nothing Boromir had seen before. And after the last ten weeks he believed he had seen a good deal of lonely and wild in Wilderland.

 

Following the river North had been a good and a bad idea all in itself. The path had been so hard to find that Boromir had sometimes not even tried but simply kept to the river valley, and the lands had been lonely, the few people he had met had been distrustful. The Woodsmen had evaded him when they saw him and the Beornings… they certainly were not people to seek trouble with. They had pointed him towards the ford with little words and a scarce warning that the pass had been _restless_ as of late. Not a message that sounded particularly enticing, but he had traveled on, seeing the mighty range draw closer and closer with each passing day and now he stood here – in the narrow valley that the road wound into, climbing steeply into greater heights. He had dismounted to lead the horse, the path was too narrow to be trusted to ride on.

 

He had chosen to follow the high path, leaving the valley grounds mainly because it seemed the path more traveled, he had seen tracks of hooves in the wet mud and there was a deep trodden middle to the path that indicating that pony caravans used this trail as well, while the low path had not looked as used. It had been the right choice, Boromir thought as he led the horse around the narrow bend of the pass road and towards the next steep slopes. The road might be in a bad shape, but it was still passable, even the weather was holding and he had no reason to complain. He would not like to get into a storm while up so high in the mountains.

 

A thunderous noise ripped the quiet of the afternoon apart, as a load of heavy stones crashed down the path from the heights above narrowly missing him. Boromir firmly held onto Brawler's reins, keeping the horse close to the wall as the stones rushed past them, smashing the grounds deep below. Craning his neck he peered up, had this been an overhang dropping or the sign of a great dry avalanche coming loose? His question found an unpleasant answer when he heard the shrieks – shrill shrieks rising above, the high pitched voices left little doubt what kind of creatures were shouting. Orcs! Boromir's hand fell to his sword, in Rohan he had heard that there were wild Orcs in these parts, though he had not believed they were such common an occurrence that he would run into them.

 

The clashing of steel on steel and the howl of an Orc forced his mind back to the present. Two Orcs sailed past him down into the ravine, their shrieks echoing terribly from the rock faces, Boromir saw that one of them was bleeding. Someone was fighting them further up. Letting go of the reins he strode up the narrow path, the noises of fighting – clashing steel, shrieking orcs and now and then the sickening sound of a blade eating through heavy armor guiding his steps. To shorten the path he had to take, he grabbed the ledge above, pulling himself up – it led him right onto a small plateau in front of a cave mouth. More than two dozen orcs were flooding from the cave mouth at two fighters standing back to back on the plateau, their horses having fled onto the path further up. The two fighters had a tough stand against them, the Orcs rushing at them, forcing them to fight several each. There were already several dead Orcs on the ground, how the two fighters were still holding their own bespoke skill and strength.

 

Drawing his sword Boromir raced towards them, the first Orc still had his back towards him and was easily stabbed, the next came about and Boromir parried the hit of the crude sabre, he pushed the Orc backwards, the next hit beheading him. These Orcs were smaller and less strong than the black orcs from Mordor, though they were more agile. One of them jumped him and he felt teeth at his neck, reaching back Boromir grabbed his attacker and tossed him down into the ravine. Coming around he stabbed the next of them, having to dodge the attacks of two more. How many were there?

 

Suddenly one of the Orcs that had flanked him was killed by a long blade in the back, the two fighters had seen him and closed ranks with him. Another group of Orcs came but some of them already hung back and fled when they saw their comrades defeated.

 

“They won’t be gone for long – we better hurry to get away from that den,” The fighter standing to Boromir’s left had spoken, he was the one with the long blade who had killed the Orc that had flanked Boromir moments before.

 

“Dragûn nacal,” the other one said in a tongue that felt utterly foreign and somehow familiar to Boromir. They both had strangely deep voices.

 

“Westron, Anvari,” the first said sheathing his blade, his eyes still watchful on the cave mouth.

 

“I said they are becoming bold to come out in daylight,” the second repeated, casting an apologetic glance at Boromir.

 

“They don’t usually hunt in daylight?” Boromir knew that Mordor’s Orcs hated the daylight and were weakened by it, but they were driven by the whips of those who would not care less for their fears. “Are you injured?” The question was addressed at both fighters. They had fought valiantly against a great number of foes and the fact that they were still standing spoke of their hardiness and skill. He surveyed both of them with a quick glance, they were short – under five feet tall both of them. Both had dark hair, worn long and openly adorned with… braids?

 

The one with the longsword turned around facing Boromir and for a moment Boromir believed he was dreaming. He had seen this face before – a lean face with proud, noble features and dark eyes, framed by a mane of dark hair streaked with the faintest traces of grey –  he had seen it only once, in the darkest hours in the dungeons of Minas Morgul, but he had never forgotten.

 

“…. Are you alright?” The stranger had closed the gap between them and now looked up at him with a slightly worried expression.

 

Boromir realized that he must have missed something he had said. Shaking his head he forced himself to not think of the darkness under the dread city – what he had seen then had been a dream, an image he had conjured up to somehow survive the horrors he had been faced with, an illusion of not being alone, the comfort of someone sharing his suffering, but ultimately a dream, he reminded himself. He better not begin to see such things in real life. “I am well. What about you?”

 

“No injuries beyond scratches, but we better hurry to get away from this place. Come nightfall all of Goblin Town will be crawling up this shaft.”

 

“My horse is still down the ledge, I left it there when it began to rain Orcs,” Focusing on the immediate situation helped Boromir to push aside any thoughts of the past. “do you know a safe place that we can reach before nightfall?”

 

“Safe is a relative word in these parts, but we know a few places that are easily defended.”

 

Without losing any more time, Boromir went down the ledge bringing his horse up to the high path. When he returned he saw that the two had gotten their mounts as well. In spite of their smaller stature they rode tall horses. The path they guided him on for the next two hours was even narrower than the one he had taken before. A part of Boromir wondered if it was a wise choice to follow them, but a stronger side in him felt that they were trustworthy. And they were familiar with these grounds, he decided, the way they moved through the mountains bespoke a familiarity with these paths, an advantage he would not pass up.

 

When the sun began to set in the west they had climbed up towards a small plateau that was only accessible through the narrow path they had come from, they had ascended steeply and beyond the rocks surrounding them Boromir could see the sun glitter on the first traces of ice gracing the stone grounds. A chill wind fell from the icy peaks that had come that much closer, belying the fact that it was still summer. “It will be a cold night,” he said to himself, in these heights the cold could as easily kill a man than any Orc blade would.

 

“We’ll have a fire going soon,” the older of his two companions replied, as he handed the reins of the horse to the younger one. “We had no chance to thank you for your timely aid before,” he said to Boromir. “but you truly came in the nick of time.”

 

Again Boromir could not strafe off the feeling that he knew this man, that they had met before but he could neither name where or when. Man… that was the question too. The warriors both were under five feet in height, and there was something about them that was strange, foreign. “You are dwarves…” he could only guess that they were, but if the fleeting reads he had given the reports of their ambassador at the dwarven kingdom were any indication, they had to be.

 

The older one of them smiled, amusement sparkling in his dark eyes. “Kíli,” he named himself.

 

“and Anvari,” the other said, before both bowed and added in unison. “at your service.”

 

“Boromir at yours,” he truly wished that Faramir were here with him, he would know his way around foreign customs and strange rules of conduct. “You are on your way across the mountains as well?”

 

Kíli’s answer was a curt nod. “Aye, we had hoped to keep to the upper path and avoid any tangles with the denizens of Goblin Town – but it seems we’ll have to take the High Pass instead, though it is partially swallowed up by ice these days.”

 

Anvari had taken the reins of Boromir’s horse as well, leading it towards the steep rock barrier that would shelter them from the wind, while Kíli had piled up some wood – dry, scarce wood of some mountain firs. “I take it you are on the way across as well?” he asked, as the fire began to burn.

 

Boromir had often heard that travelers on the long roads were easy to camp together, that they had a similar rapport like soldiers would, but he had never experienced it in practice. Following his instinct to trust those two – they had been fighting the Orcs after all – he sat down by the crackling flames, the warmth welcome in the icy wind. “That’s true – though I was warned the pass roads might be restless, I had no idea that there was a Goblin Town nearby. I had not expected Orcs that many leagues away from the black lands.”

 

Kíli shrugged. “The Misty Mountains and the Lone lands are crawling with them – Goblins, Mountain Orcs, Gundabad Orcs… they came from Forodwaidh a long time ago and never left.”

 

Boromir quietly studied the two dwarves. It was the first time he ever met some of their kind. He had already noticed the strong, compact build, that was different from any man’s, and it was more their faces that held fascination for him. Studying and assessing people was a trait any commander learned quickly, but these two presented riddles. Kíli was clearly the older, his dark hair carrying a touch of gray here and there, though his face did not really fit someone already graying. He also carried himself with the ease and confidence of someone who had often traveled and was well experienced with the dangers of the road. Anvari was younger, but Boromir guessed that the two were related – their looks indicated that quite easily. They shared the same dark mane and basic facial features, and they had also chosen the same style of strange gold adornments for their braids. Brothers maybe, or father and son, depending on dwarven age, something he knew nothing about. “Are they in league with the dark lands?” he asked in regard of the Orcs.

 

“Whipped into line whenever it suits the east you mean?” Kíli stirred the flames with a branch, a few tongues of fire licking up the wood and touching his hand without harming him. “They are on their own when left as such and under the dark wing whenever someone whips them into obedience. Angmar certainly made liberal use of them, and there have been Easterlings taking command of Orc strongholds in these Mountains before. Mordor has been bleeding off their numbers for their legions for many years – which is ironically a mercy on the surrounding lands.”

 

“Easterlings coming here and… no one hindered their doings?” Boromir sat up straight, this did not sound like the fighting capabilities of the northern kingdoms were that strong.

 

“I came across them when I was in an Orc den with a friend a few decades ago,” Kíli replied. “we were there to free another friend who had been captured and overheard the Easterlings talking of their plans, of whipping Orcs in line and capturing Warg cubs for the breeding masters in the East. But being only two people we snuck past them, freed our people and got away swiftly.” He looked up and his dark eyes seemed to shine in the light of the fire. “I wish there was an army that could clean out these Mountains, Boromir, but the Beornings down in Anduin valley are already fighting hard to prevent the Orcs from spreading downriver, the Elves in Rivendell fight a constant war against the Orcs in the Mountains and Eriador… Eriador was a fallen land ever since Angmar destroyed Arnor and it didn’t get any better after we left to return home.”

 

There was a grim truth about his words, Boromir could hear it. He was not lamenting anything, it was the simple, hard facts he was recounting. “Your people used to live in Eriador?” Boromir wished he knew his way around dwarven history but what he knew of them was about their Northern Kingdom, which was the best maker of weapons and armor in the world. “I thought you lived at the Mountain Home.”

 

There was a smile on Kíli’s face that Boromir could not quite read. “The Mountain Home fell to a dragon more than two hundred years ago, Boromir, and our people wandered the world for a long time before King Thorin eventually led them back to Erebor.”

 

“Where you killed the dragon,” Anvari said softly, the youth sat curled up by the fire, content to listen to most of the conversation.

 

Kíli cast him a glare that reminded Boromir of his own sibling arguments with his little brother. “I did not do it alone, I had help – lots of help – brave friends who dared the dragon, who fought him tooth and nail until I could land a lucky shot.” He looked up and there was a strange, almost eerie expression in his eyes, when he looked back to Boromir. “It is a long tale – too long for this night. Let us get some sleep, the pass road will be a hard crossing come morning.”

 

The early night passed peacefully, the fire keeping the cold at bay. Boromir had volunteered for first watch. He had expected the fire to burn out before midnight because they did not have much firewood, but it kept burning steadily like the wood it was blazing on was never spent. Sitting with his back against the rock Boromir listened into the night, his ears more able to pick up dangers than his eyes in the darkness surrounding them. Midnight was slowly creeping by, the moon passing through the skies high above them.

 

The first Boromir heard was a scratching noise – like stone scraping on stone, a slurring sound that hurt the ears and made the hair on his neck stand on end. He saw Kíli push himself up from his sleep, Anvari also going from sleep to wakefulness if not quite as instantaneously as his older companion. “You heard that too?” Boromir asked softly, just a whisper to not give them away.

 

Kíli nodded, pointing east of them towards a small tower of rocks. “Stone door,” he replied as softly, “old and long in disuse – might be orcs, might be worse.” He grabbed his bow, getting to his feet.

 

Boromir understood at once, better to check out a danger than to wait for an ambush. It was a good tactic. He too rose, drawing his sword. Kíli took point as they moved out into the darkness. Even under the light of the waning moon, Boromir had trouble following him, so quickly did the dwarf move across the stone grounds. He strained his ears listening into the night, but there was little noise outside the moaning of the cold winds.

 

Suddenly a shriek – the loud fierce howl of an Orc pierced the night. Whirling around Boromir saw five Orcs up on the hillside, a smaller figure scrambled down the rocky grounds, half running, half slipping down, stones crashing on stone left and right of his path, the Orcs chasing in that direction. Without a moment’s hesitation Boromir raced towards the slipping figure – someone else running from the Orcs most likely, placing himself between them and their prey. They reached him within moments, he parried their wild attacks, stabbing the first who was furious enough to make mistakes. Arrows whistled past him, hitting two of the Orcs in their throat. He used the gap that opened, to stab another, while the last fell victim to a precisely thrown blade.

 

Boromir came around and hastened down the hillside towards where he had last seen the fleeing captive. Even as he was racing towards him his eyes were attentive on the surrounding dark grounds, in case there were more Orcs after their prey. But there was only the silence and their own hasty steps on the rocks. Kíli and he reached the Orc’s victim at the same time, he had stumbled and fallen to the ground on an icy stretch between the rocks. Kíli raised his hand and Boromir blinked hard in the white light of a stone the dwarf held up. A short figure in ragged clothes lay unmoving on the ice, Boromir saw a bony frame, clad in torn rags that had no colour beyond dirt in the pale light. Matted grey hair covering head and shoulders of the short figure. “Another dwarf?” he asked, as Kíli knelt down beside the fallen person.

 

“Definitely,” Kíli said, turning the wounded dwarf on the back, he groaned, the feet moving trying to find purchase on the slippery ground. The light of the stone revealed a haggard old face, disfigured by a scar on the cheek. Kíli’s eyes widened. “Dori…”

 

“You know him?” Boromir knew the question was idiotic, it was obvious the dwarves knew each other. He squatted down on the other side. “I can carry him back to camp, he does not look like he is going to walk very far.” He said, only now that he was close up he saw the strange expression on Kíli’s face, among men he would have said that the dwarf looked like he had seen a ghost, but here Boromir was not sure how to interpret the strange mien.

 

“Do that,” Kíli made his decision. “I’ll cover you, there might be more Orcs close by.”

 

The way back to camp was short, but Boromir feared that the wounded dwarf would die on him in the short time. His breathing was ragged and he was shaking like in fever. In spite of his once powerful stature he was lightweight now, easy for Boromir to carry. Kíli and Anvari covered him all the way back, making sure he was not attacked. When they reached the camp he bedded the dwarf down by the fire. He had felt the warm blood seep on his hands while carrying him, but now he could see the injuries across chest and sides that were partially dried, caked over with the dirty rages he wore.

 

“Anvari, get the salves from my saddlebag and we need more water,” Kíli had squatted down beside the old dwarf, taking stock of the injuries. “these look bad.”

 

Dori coughed, his body shaking hard. “Do not concern yourself,” his voice was hoarse and raspy as he spoke. “you can’t save me… even if you were to try.”

 

“Dori,” Kíli’s voice was calm but very firm. “I will try to save you, like it or not, after you can go and hate me for not rescuing your brother. And now hold still.”

 

The aged dwarf’s hand caught Kíli’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “No,” he said. “it is too late for me – it is a bitter irony that it should be you who came to my rescue… after all that happened.”

 

“No one deserves to end up in the hands of the orcs,” Kíli did not break free from Dori’s grip, though he could have. “and no matter the past, you do not need to die of these wounds, you still have a chance.”

 

Dori shook his head. “No… my time is coming. Maybe it is better that way, we all pay for our sins, for our crimes in the end. Much as my brother did.”

 

“Nori,” Kíli’s voice sank to a growl. “you can’t place that death at my feet as well – what he did…”

 

“What he did was not the plan,” Dori said, gasping for air. “you have to believe me that much. The plan was only aimed at you and you alone -  no one else was supposed to get hurt. You were to pay for what happened to Ori… but you were not even there. Nori… his allies… you have to believe me, it was never meant to be your mother and that little boy… I told him not to, but he still did it.”

 

Boromir could not begin to guess what this all was about, the scarce words did not allow for a full understanding what the injured dwarf spoke off, but he saw how Kíli closed his eyes and his face became calmer, composed. “I believe you, Dori, you might have hated me but you were not the dwarrow to harm children, or to see Dís murdered. It is sad to know you were involved in the conspiracy.”

 

A rasping laugh escaped Dori, it was a laughter without joy, without humor. “Dwalin came close to catching me, very close… he is the most annoyingly loyal dwarrow I had the misfortune to ever meet. I escaped, I left when Nori kidnapped that poor child… the boy must have died, if they did what they planned.”

 

Anvari had moved close, squatting down on the other side of the old dwarf. “I survived,” he said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Kíli found help for me.”

 

“Then you were more lucky than my poor Ori was…” Dori coughed, his eyes went back to Kíli. “I always knew you were lying when you spoke of his death. The words were well chosen… they were what any family would expect to hear, but they were not the truth. When I fled Erebor I went back to Goblin Town, I wanted to truth… I wanted to find what was left of him.”

 

“Mahal’s mercy – that was a crazy choice, Goblin Town must have been crawling with Orcs at the time,” Kíli nearly barked. “I may not have chosen my words the best way back that day, but I swear by Mahal that there was no chance to save Ori.”

 

“I know,” Dori’s voice had fallen to a whisper. “I know that now, for I was captured and traded off to Bolg – he is Azog’s son, knows and hates you.” The hand left Kíli’s wrist as Dori sank back, his strength waning. “He was delighted to tell me the tale of what truly happened. My poor little Ori… we should never have come on that quest.” The old dwarf looked at Kíli. “The Orcs are strong again, Kíli… there are thousands of captives in the deep. Thousands and thousands… the strongholds of old, the wicked dwarves, the Blacklocks, the Stonefists… they all were overrun by the Orcs, they turned on their allies and dragged them down into the deeps… that’s where I was send with all the others, all the captive dwarves that are made forge weapons for the Orc armies.”

 

“The Orcs turned on their allies? They took the Blacklocks?” Kíli gasped, the thought of the thousands of dwarves captive down in the deeps was hard to bear.

 

“All of them, there is no free dwarven stronghold left in the Misty Mountains,” Dori pushed himself up to nearly sit. “that’s where I was ever since, working in the forges under the whip of the Orcs… the other captives… they have a legend, a story they tell – the story of a young dwarf Prince who was a slave of the Goblins and freed himself, he even came back and freed the captives in Moria.”

 

“Frérin,” Kíli said at once, remembering his brave Uncle and his long captivity under the Mountains.

 

“You,” Dori said shaking his head. “you came to free Frérin, you were marked the Goblin King’s plaything and you still freed yourself of that shame. It was my irony that I had the respect of my fellow captives because I once knew you, that I was asked to tell stories about you for the remainder of my time. It was my punishment.” He sank back, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe.

 

“But you still escaped,” Kíli said, a little impatiently. “why do you insist on dying here? Why refuse the help you could get?”

 

“You still would aid me,” Dori’s voice nearly broke. “and I do not want it. I do not want your mercy, nor your forgiveness, I want peace… I want to die, to sleep in the darkness. Do not burry my body… I know you’d be stupidly noble enough to try. Neither of my brothers had a grave and I do not wish for one either.”

 

Boromir had risen and gone to retrieve one of their waterskins from the horses. He came back handing it to Kíli, this Dori-fellow no matter if he died or not would find some clean water a relief. Dori’s eyes widened when he saw him, a frown creasing his brows. “But they said you died…” he whispered, his body convulsing. Kíli grasped him but it was too late, the end came swiftly.

 

TRB

 

Boromir had helped Kíli to carry the body of the dead dwarrow towards an overhang of rocks and ice only a dozen paces off their own camp. The words of the dying dwarf were still fresh on his mind, because he could not place the old dwarf’s face with any person he had ever encountered and yet the dwarf had recognized him instantly. Or had he put together a description and some rumour of Boromir’s demise? He did not know. They placed the body under the overhang, so it nearly formed a rough crypt of sorts. “He said he did not want a grave,” Boromir observed, he was not sure if he should even interfere in the entire dwarven matter, yet he somehow felt he could not stay outside. He did not know why or how, but in a way he felt linked to what had transpired. “and he bore you no love.”

 

Kíli bowed his head, long tresses of hair obscuring his face. “He blamed me for the death of his youngest brother – Ori. A brave young dwarrow… and I wish there had been a way to save him, Boromir. But there wasn’t, there never was, from the moment that burning bridge collapsed our choices were limited and his wounds…” He looked up to Boromir, a strange expression shining in his black eyes. “my mind knows that there was nothing I could do, my heart wishes differently and no matter both, it remains on my shoulders, my responsibility.”

 

There was an openness in this moment that puzzled Boromir, he knew that Kíli had just let him past his defences, letting him see something that no one would share with a stranger. Maybe he did not want to burden his young companion, maybe he felt that Boromir himself knew that situation all too well, he could not tell and yet he wanted to reach out and help this stranger. It was not an impulse he had often. “Sometimes we lose people, Kíli, because some fate, some power beyond the sundering seas has decreed it so, none of us knows when his hour may come, bearing anger for those that were lost is a waste of strength and emotion – at least that’s what I keep telling myself.” He did not know why he had opened up to share his thoughts like this, but it felt right.

 

Reaching up Kíli clapped his arm in a gesture of understanding and wordless thanks. “Dori is at rest now – Mahal shelter him and guide him home.” There was a grave finality to his words, a last prayer for the fallen and now it was time to move on.

 

Boromir understood that tone very well. “Should we move out?” he peered up to the skies. “It must be three hours past midnight already, I doubt any of us will find sleep.”

 

“Agreed, we can be further up before the sun rises.” They returned to the horses, saddling their mounts again and headed out soon after, leaving behind the camp and silent grave of one lone dwarf.

 

 

** Author’s Note **

****

And here we finally are at the fourth part of the Raven’s Blade. I’ll freely admit I am nervous about it still – because of the massive changes the other three parts bring to the Ring War, and because of all the consequences these changes will have for the story.

 

To all who read and commented on the first three parts: Welcome back! Big hugs! Take a seat by the fire and bring some ale. To all who are new: welcome as well. I really suggest you read the first three parts of the Raven’s blade or this will feel like the weirdest fic ever to you.

 

Many many thanks to Harrylee94 again, who hopped onto reading this prologue the moment I came back online. You rock.

 

And a very special thanks to ScribeofRed who is working patiently with me on editing the first part of the Raven’s Blade – your questions make me think a lot while typing like crazy. I’ll try to make this a bit easier for my favorite Aragorn fangirl ;).

 

Like always: comments, critique, insights and questions are very welcome.

 

Valandhir


	2. The Shards of War

Boromir was close to wishing he had left this journey to Faramir, his little brother might have been suited to diplomatically navigating this eerie realm, at least Boromir was sure he would be. Not that the elves were rude, they were unfailingly polite if aloof and very good at speaking without saying something. When they had arrived at the Hawk’s Watch Boromir had believed the elves might not be that different as the legends made them out to be, for the Watch was a sensible fortress covering the steep pass road leading into Rivendell. Their welcome had been assured as well, it seemed that his travelling companions were known to the Elves and had been invited to some kind of meeting at the court of the elven King.

 

His own arrival had been greeted politely as well – though that was where the unnerving part began. Lindir, some kind of majordomo of the court had told him that Boromir’s own search might be linked to a council soon to be held and that Boromir would be heard there, then he had glided away, leaving Boromir to wonder what his words meant. And then there were the stares he was getting, elves looking at him with a most puzzled expression and then heading away swiftly. It had begun at the Watch, where some warriors had stared at him but it became worse inside the valley. At first he had wondered if the elves were simply not used to the presence of strangers, that his presence startled them in the same way an Elf’s presence would startle people in the streets of Minas Tirith, but then he had noticed that it was only some who reacted so strangely. He had tried to speak to some of them, to find out what the reason for their strange behavior was, yet if he did not run into the language barrier of not speaking any elven, he found their answers elusive and cryptic, so he had given up on it entirely.

 

Still the glances were unnerving, as was being told that a council would be held soon and being relegated to waiting. The second evening Boromir found no rest at all and took to wandering about. He wondered where his travelling companions had been quartered, they had been swiftly called away after their arrival, for a meeting with some elven prince. Still, the company of someone reasonable and less cryptic than their esteemed hosts would be wonderful. Walking up a winding stair Boromir could not help but find the entire architecture of this House… this Palace… confusing, wide open arches, rooms that were missing half the proper walls and stairs that seemed to lead nowhere. He had a hard time to feel calm in these rooms, in buildings that were practically indefensible, that had no solid walls, allowed for no cover and left a man exposed from all angles. He briefly wondered if this was what peace was supposed to look like, a place where no one even thought of reasonable safety but he decided against it. No sensible man had built such strange buildings in generations of peace, it had to be an Elven trait.

 

The winding stair led up into a real building for a change, or a real building as far as things went here, it had closed walls and less arching windows, he allowed himself to relax slightly, to take in the beauty of the halls he walked in. They had a fleeting, otherworldly quality that made him wonder if a soul might stray too deep into these halls and find itself in the world beyond without even knowing it. If Boromir had any picture of the land where darkness and pain were but a memory, this place came close. Ascending another flight of sweeping stairs, Boromir’s attention was drawn towards the huge mural adorning the walls. They depicted various battle scenes, of men and elves fighting Orcs and creatures of the Shadow. He walked closer, intrigued how the elves would commemorate their past wars, there were several smaller murals surrounding a large one. The smaller ones held various battle scenes, a combined force charging at an Orc legion, a man battling trolls, an elven warrior falling surrounded my countless foes, all paintings had a depth of detail that told Boromir that the artist must have seen battle himself – there was a precision about the details that could not be attained in any other way. However, there also was a beauty in those paintings that withdrew them from reality and moved them closer to a depiction of legend. It was the faces that gave them away – the fighter’s faces all were proud, stern and noble, there was nothing of the desperation, the horror, the wild blood lust and the sheer struggle for survival that Boromir knew marked the faces of those standing in battle.

 

And then there were the enemies – the Orcs were depicted with precise detail, their appearance and faces exactly what Boromir knew Mordor’s legions looked like. But that was were reality ended – for there were too many Orcs and too little other forces depicted. No one, not even Mordor at the height of its power had deployed that many Orcs in the field without having their Haradrim captains and Easterling Elite in the field as well. No one better to make sure an Orc legion performed well in battle, than one of their grim commanders. Yet on the mural he found only two depictions of Easterlings and they looked so much like monsters that they could easily be mistaken for Orcs. Boromir shook his head, it was easy to believe the enemy a monster, a creature of mindless cruelty, only it was not true. He had seen the faces of countless foes, had faced many Easterlings, he even knew a number of them face to face and he knew the true horror of them was that they were not monsters, that they were men, capable and cruel as only men could be.

 

His eyes went to the great mural, depicting how Isildur fought Sauron himself – it was an impressive painting, the depiction of the dark Lord frightening enough for Boromir to take a step backwards, and yet… he could not tear his eyes away from the battle commemorated on the silent wall. He had heard the story of this battle countless times since he was a child, the lesson of strength and weakness the world of men carried, and he could not help but wonder again what truly had transpired on that field, how it truly had come to pass that the Shadow fell.

 

He shrugged, the shadow had not fallen, only fled and the war was not over, maybe it would never end. There was no use to dwell on the past, on things that could not be changed. He turned away from the mural and found himself faced with a statue of stone – one of the many mourning statues that he had seen in various parts of the valley. Only this one carried a bier presenting the pieces of a broken blade. Boromir stopped. The shards of Narsil – the elves must have built this hall to commemorate the last battle, the last alliance. How had the shards come here? Or had they been in their keeping ever since the battle? No, he vaguely recalled they had been kept in Arnor, or had it?

 

He wanted to step closer, but voices and approaching steps interrupted his movement. Two people were entering the hall on the other side. “No, I doubt that there is any hope for that,” he heard a familiar, deep voice say. “if the Blacklock fortress is gone along with the Stonefist stronghold, no one pass south of Mt. Gundabad is reasonably safe these days, if they ever were and I’d not hope much for the pass of the winding stair either, Aragorn, the Black Deep is just below and if I know anything of that Orc den, they will be raiding anyone who crosses the Mountains.”

 

Aragorn! That name startled Boromir’s attention away from the statue, it was a name he had heard before, spoken by his father, when he told them about his distrust for Mithrandir and about the fallen line of Kings. Boromir had not expected to hear the name ever again. What were the chances that he should encounter the Crownless One here and at this time? Again he recalled the dream, the verse had spoken of Isildur’s Bane and the Crownless One, maybe there was no coincidence in this?

 

“There must be paths across the Mountains that are still open, Kíli. Your people have been crossing the Mountains for decades no matter how many Orcs were roaming them.” Boromir heard another voice reply, his eyes training on the two figures walking down the long gallery. One of them was Kíli, his smaller, compact appearance easily discernible; the other one was a man, about Boromir’s height with long dark hair and with the proud face that could not deny the Numenorán ancestry. The profile was reminiscent of the statues in the crypts of Kings in Minas Tirith. Thorongil was indeed a living picture of them.

 

“And we usually send enough fighters to give the Orcs a lesson they don’t easily forget,” Kíli went on, both of them were still unaware of Boromir’s presence. “and we kept focusing our routes on the High Pass, because we know Elrond’s sons keep the Orcs on their toes so close from Rivendell’s gates.”

 

Both laughed before Aragorn spoke. “You have a point there, Elladan and Elrohir certainly have ensured that Rivendell does not have to worry about Orcs close to their doorstep. But the High Pass is not one Mithrandir would consider easily – he seems to hold bad memories of it.”

 

“Talk about an unscheduled audience with his Malevolence not to mention that the upper path runs right through the Thunder Rift,” Both of them stopped when they saw Boromir, who had turned towards them. For a moment there was a tense silence settling on them, Boromir wondered if he had intruded on territory where he was not welcome.

 

“Boromir, I already wondered where the Elves had sent you.” Kíli broke the silence before it could become uncomfortable.

 

“You know each other?” Thorongil asked, with the strangest tone of voice. Boromir saw the grey eyes dark back and forth between them, from Kíli to him and back again.

 

“We crossed the Mountains together,” Boromir’s answer was direct and to the point, he could see the strange way Thorongil regarded him with, akin to the stares he had gotten from the Elves during the previous day. He was tired of it – whatever made them look at him like that, either they should say it or leave it. “and I am neither an evil spirit nor an apparition that will vanish at the rooster’s first call.” He knew that this man was the wrong person to voice his anger to, but he had seen how Thorongil’s hand had sunken to a blade by his side, a short sword only but enough of threat.

 

The other man relaxed slightly. “You remind me of someone I met long ago,” he cast a side-glance to Kíli and Boromir wondered what question he was silently asking. Or was he wondering if Kíli felt the same? “and I had certainly not expected to meet the Lord Captain of Gondor so far from his homeland.”

 

“As much as I had not expected to meet Thorongil in the lands of the Elves,” Boromir too relaxed, a mix up of faces, a resemblance with someone else might explain the one or other stare. His mother Findulas of Dol Amroth had been related to the Elves, who knew what vague family resemblance was still visible here? “though maybe I should be less surprised – as history ties you to this place.” His eyes went back to the mural, vaguely recalling that Valandil, son of Isildur was said to having been fostered in this mystical realm of the Elves.

 

“There is truth in that,” Thorongil too relaxed on his stance, his hand leaving the weapon. “I had not known that Lord Elrond had sent to Gondor for this Council, the journey must have been arduous especially with crossing the Mountains.”

 

“He did not, it was something else that brought me here, though had I known that the Misty Mountains are nearly as bad as the Mountains of Shadow I might have reconsidered my route.” Boromir would not blame Gríma for the dangers of the road, but he would admit that he had underestimated the dangers of the Mountain Pass.

 

“Which would not have helped at all,” Kíli spoke up. “you’d have to cross half the Lone Lands to get to Rivendell, if you chose another path, not to mention Dunland and the Gap of Rohan which might be as bad these days, if I take into account what Aragorn told me.”

 

Boromir’s eyes went from the dwarf back to Thorongil. “As far as I know the gap of Rohan is still open, a bit restless but nothing out of the ordinary.”

 

“So you do not know?” Now Thorongil was clearly startled. “I thought it might have been the reason why you came North. With the Nine leaving Minas Morgul the border must have been in disarray.”

 

“The Nine?” Boromir had never heard of any possible instance where all the Nine had left the dread city. They were whispered to have one of their number in Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, but Minas Morgul was their lair, the city they ruled. “They left the dread city? What would bring them out?”

 

“They rode from Minas Morgul and crossed the Fords of Isen at Midsummer’s Eve taking the shape of Black Riders,” Thorongil’s voice was tense when he spoke of them, and Boromir understood all too well. Those who knew the terror of the dread city never forgot. “they came North hunting for someone and came too close to succeeding.”

 

“It must have been more than someone for them to come themselves and not to send some of their minions,” Boromir’s mind was racing. The dream... if fate had any reason to call for them like that, this must be it. Something that would also bring the Nine out of their city. “you said you could keep it out of their jaws?”

 

“Aye, it was a hunt that reached to the very fords of Rivendell, where the Riders lost their shape in the rushing waters and were forced to return back to their city shapeless.” Aragorn leaned against the stone railing as he spoke, their talk had relaxed to a conversation between warriors.

 

“It’s a tale you still owe me,” Kíli shook his head. “I wish Gandalf had send word that Frodo was in danger – we’d have sent a good number of warriors to protect him at once.”

 

The Ranger shook his head. “Secrecy was the key, Kíli, one man and two halflings could slip past the hunt nearly unseen, while any more companions would have raised the chances of being discovered. We had one close call, but were lucky to escape.”

 

Boromir could see Kíli’s frown, it was easy to tell the dwarf did not like that reasoning at all. “How grave is the danger for this place?” he asked “If the Nine returned South knowing their quarry is here, they might not give up easily on it.”

 

A small smile relaxed the stern features of Thorongil. “The danger is real, but not immediate. The Enemy has no reliable army so far North and will not trust the Orcs with such an undertaking, still our time is limited.”

 

“Kíli did mention Easterlings taking command of Orc strongholds in the Mountains,” Boromir knew how swiftly any Easterling would transform the Orc rabble into an organized legion.

 

A shadow flickered over Thorongil’s face when the Easterlings were mentioned. “I have reason to believe that they were forced to retract their scouts and commanders when the pressure on them began to be too great,” he said, a definite edge in his voice.

 

“So it is true you and the Rangers went to hunt them down? There were rumors about it, but if there is a rumor about a Ranger it is most likely a garbled distraction.” The dwarf had tilted his head slightly, studying Aragorn.

 

“After learning there was more of them, it is what we did, Kíli.” Boromir noticed that Aragorn – like all Rangers – was not a man to like talking about his exploits. “because you were right, the resources of the Misty Mountains are too great and vast to leave to the East uncontested. And while we could not uproot the Orcs, we could hunt their Easterling commanders, after losing too many of their good fighters, the East retracted them. Though I do not presume to know what happened about their outpost in the deeps of Khazad-Dum.”

 

Khazad-Dum, the word struck a strange chord in Boromir, like a tune half-forgotten but still remembered, echoing to him from afar. Why did he feel he knew this word? “Pushing them away from any useful base so far west is an impressive feat,” he had to acknowledge that an Easterling stronghold in the Misty Mountains would be more than just a problem; it was a catastrophe waiting to happen. The number of Orcs and resources in their hands… they’d have the strength to open another frontline, one too many to defend against. If that was the reason why Thorongil had left Gondor, Boromir could the sense behind it. “I don’t like to imagine how our defenses would look like if they could strike at Rohan from the Mountains.”

 

“How bad is the situation in the south?” Thorongil asked, his voice softening at the words, Boromir could hear the worry in the question as well as hesitation. Did he not wish to ask, or did he feel he should not? Thorongil was nothing like he had expected him to be. He had expected a proud, maybe slightly haughty, heir of Isildur, not an almost shy ranger that reminded him constantly of Faramir.

 

“The riverline is our main defensive line these days, with fortifications ranging from Cair Andros, over Celanost in Osgiliath down to Emyn Arnen Towers and Pelagir fortress. We had to retreat from Paros eventually, because the River is a natural barrier and easier to defend. There are still a number of fortified settlements in East Ithilien that serve as our staging areas and as a constant base for the Ithilien Rangers. People of East Ithilien are exempt from recruiting because any man, woman or child above twelve is actively fighting or supporting the fight anyway. It’s a fact that rankles the Western Provinces, but they are a lost cause if I ever saw one.”

 

“Exempt from recruitment?” Thorongil pushed away from the railing he was leaning on. “How strict is recruiting these days? And what was that about the Western Provinces?”

 

Boromir was not taken aback by the questions Thorongil asked, he saw genuine interest, maybe even care in them and he had long learned never to underestimate a quiet ranger. “Recruitment age was lowered to seventeen, two fighters per family are compulsory, healers from the same family do not discount the duty for active service any more, a fallen family member will be counted as such for five years before the family will be approached for another. It is hard, but we only have to enforce it in the Western Provinces, who still dream of peace and think they can somehow talk their way out of the war against the Shadow. Along the Eastern border and in Minas Tirith we usually get the recruits through volunteering, but still… it just so compensates for what we lose each year. I was almost relieved when we learned that Haradrim were reluctant to commit their troops to Mordor… though the Easterlings will have cured them of that soon enough.”

 

Thorongil’s face had paled visibly. “Two per family?” He asked softly. “That… it must cripple your people to commit such numbers.”

 

Overhearing the ‘your people’ Boromir raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “What other choice do we have? The East is raising more and more troops each passing year, the Easterling Empire is ready for war… and when their legions march…” he did not go on, he knew all too well what would follow. “They hold an ancient grudge against us, against all Numenoráns, all Edain, and they will not stop until they have driven us back into the sea.”

 

“The East has been broken, disregarded and shunned for nearly an age,” Kíli said, sounding like he was quoting someone. “they are now awakening, their day is beginning to dawn and they know it. Beware the storm that will carry them to war.”

 

“I remember when you told me that,” Aragorn said to Kíli, his eyes going from Boromir to the dwarven warrior. “and it proved sadly more true than I ever expected it to be.”

 

“Dwalin told me that a long time ago – and he knew what he was talking about.” Kíli replied. “But the East has not won this war yet, so there’s no reason to give up.”

 

Boromir liked the dwarf’s attitude – dig in and hold until strength runs out. Maybe there would be a chance to put out feelers in regard of alliances while he waited for this mysterious council to happen? “Dwalin?” he asked, another detail catching his attention. “As in Dwalin Bloodbane?” He had read the chronicles of the Great Imperial Succession, because that war had redefined Easterling strategy and military organization. “You knew him?”

 

“The very same,” Kíli seemed confused for a moment, but quickly caught on. “he fought as a mercenary for Emperor Jadhur II during the succession before he came back and helped King Thorin to retake Erebor.”

 

“He was a dwarf?” The Eastern Chronicles never mentioned a species for the famous mercenary leader and Boromir had assumed he had been a Man.

 

“He is the War-Master of Erebor,” Thorongil interjected, something akin to wry amusement sparkling in his eyes. “You must have devoted some time to studying the East to know his name.”

 

“If he still is around the Easterlings will commit some of their Best to wherever he is, when they begin their war,” Boromir said. “for he is legend amongst them. And I did study that war, because it shaped the armies they have today. Knowing how the Enemy thinks is the first step to countering his plots.”

 

There was a quiet silence for a moment, not an uncomfortable one though, more like they all needed to think over what had been said, or so it appeared to Boromir. “With things so dire, what brought you North?” Thorongil spoke after a while. “it must have been something so pressing that you could not entrust it to anyone else.”

 

Up to this moment Boromir had not shared the full extent of the dream with anyone, he had kept the knowledge a close secret, something inside him recoiling from sharing the vision he and Faramir had received. And he was surprised that he felt less reluctance to share it now, sharing it with Thorongil would make a certain sense, as he was referenced in the verse but Kíli… strangely he felt even more compelled to share the story of his journey with the dwarven warrior, without knowing why. “The night after we retook Osgiliath my brother Faramir had a dream that kept haunting him for weeks,” he began speaking, walking past Thorongil to put his hands on the stone railing and peer down to the lower level of the halls. “and after he began to block the vision from his mind, I started having the same dream, until we had it together. In that dream I saw the eastern sky grow dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

 

 Seek for the Sword that was broken:

 In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

 

And as the voice faded we saw the dark silhouette of a Tower becoming mirrored in twain, their shadows drowning out all light except one last ray shaped like a blade, with us standing on the different sides of that edge in the shadows.” Boromir turned around. “The last bit only happened when my brother and I had the dream at the same time.”

 

“Does one of you have the gift of foresight?” Aragorn had stepped closer, there was an expression of worry and compassion in his eyes, like he could understand parts of the dream’s twisted meaning.

 

“Faramir, he has the gift strongly, more pronouncedly than it has appeared in many generations.” Boromir met the gaze of the grey eyes calmly. “I would not have worried when Faramir had the dream, he often has visions and he knows which are important and which are just glimpses at things that may yet come to pass… but when I started to have the dream too…”

 

“…it was time be worried,” Thorongil nodded. “fate rarely pushes so hard at someone, but if it does doom is certain to fall behind. Is that why you came here, to this hall?” His raised hand included the hall and the mourning statue into the question.

 

“Not really, I was just wandering aimlessly, not trying to find anything.” Boromir admitted, though now it dawned to him that his own wandering steps had led him to the very hall were the shards of the sword that was broken were kept, only to meet the one who should wield that blade. He pushed that thought aside, if he went on like that, he’d start seeing five sides to any four sided thing and end up peering into cockerel entrails before long. “Though I did wonder how the blade came to be kept here.”

 

“Ohtar brought them here, where Valandil dwelt, after Isildur was slain and they again were kept here when Angmar’s forces were threatening to overrun Arnor entirely.” Thorongil replied, walking up to the statue, his eyes on the cleanly arrayed shards on the bier.

 

Kíli had raised his hand like to shield his eyes, though there was no light coming from the statue. “Mahal’s hammer… Aragorn… those shards, they are alight, alive with power still, though they must have been broken millennia ago.” He whispered, awed.

 

“I sometimes wonder if there is any man left in the world to wield this blade – were it still whole.” Aragorn’s words were not an answer to Kíli directly, more to himself, words not meant for others.

 

Boromir could heard the doubts, the self-doubts in the words and again felt a little reminded of Faramir, who had similar bouts of doubt at times, when the war allowed for a moment of breath, for a moment of thought. “It is said it will not permit the touch of anyone but your bloodline,” he pointed out, his voice friendly still. “often we do not know how much strength we have until we are sorely tested.”

 

“This blade was not wielded by my family alone, Boromir,” Aragorn looked away from the shards and to him. “Not even my House can claim a lineage that old. Narsil was made by the Telchar of Nogrod during the first age and was wielded by Maglor, who passed it on to Erlos, Elendil’s ancestor.”

 

Again Boromir thought that his brother would have loved to see this, or hear all that history, albeit he most likely knew it either way. Before he could reply, Kíli spoke, his stance had relaxed again, maybe he had adjusted to whatever he had seemed to see from the shards. “It is not entirely wrong either, Aragorn. Maglor was foster-father to Erlos, and thus the blade was bound to a line, though a line of choice if not blood. I do not think anyone outside the line could wield it once re-forged, and I doubt the shards will like a stranger’s touch.”

 

A smile broke Aragorn’s earnest mien. “I should have known that an arcane smith would see much more in the shards than just that. I often wondered why the shards were kept like this – heirlooms they may be, though not much more but a memory.”

 

Again Boromir heard the doubts echo in Thorongil’s words. When he and Faramir had discussed the dream, they had wondered if indeed the broken blade of Elendil was meant, or maybe the wielder of the blade was whom the dream told them to seek. If so… if Thorongil… Aragorn… was that, was he too broken in a way that would explain his doubts? He did not know.

 

“Because artifacts do not fade out of history quietly, they go with enough ruckuses to make an age pale,” Kíli’s answer held some grim humor, and Boromir was nearly smiling about it until he saw Aragorn’s paling at these words. Whatever the Ranger had read into the words, it was not what the dwarf had meant and Boromir wondered anew what this mysterious council, and all the happenings around it, was supposed to mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Help! A poor author is planning a short meeting scene and it eats an entire chapter. *runs and hides under her desk*. This start feels a bit dialog heavy, especially as the council is fast approaching… but I guess it can’t be helped. 
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	3. The strength of the world

Approaching the balcony where the council was supposed to take place, Boromir could not help but feel tense. His mind knew he had no right to be nervous, the last two days had not been all that bad. Kíli and Thorongil’s company had been good and the stares he was getting from the elves were abating slowly. Which was a fact to be grateful for, still it seemed the presence of so many Elves was easiest borne by those who were not elves gravitating towards each other. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he simply lacked the skill to converse and deal with elves the way Thorongil did. Yet nothing could drive away the growing unease as they approached the council meeting, like there was a shadow looming ahead, a tension worse than any waiting for a battle to begin, for a raid to happen. He did not know what he feared, or if it was truly fear at all – he only knew that he was apprehensive of what was to come.

 

“How many will be at the council?” he asked Aragorn, who seemed entirely unfazed by the events. “You mentioned that Lord Elrond sent for envoys to other realms?”

 

“It depends how many received word and were able to send someone.” Thorongil replied, halting his step on the long flight of stairs. “The dwarves, the elven realms… it is hard to say which of them had the time to truly respond to the call.”

 

So Thorongil did not know much more than he did, Boromir mused. Kíli did not seem to wonder or worry either way. “Gandalf should be here as well,” he observed as they reached the upper end of the stairs.

 

“That he is,” a tall figure in grey was standing only a few steps away, leaning on his staff. Gandalf’s eyes were on them and Boromir could see how the grey wizard frowned, his brows furrowed and he cast an almost angry glance at him and then at Kíli. “and I am surprised to see you here… together.”

 

“Maybe someone told him that this place was easy to find,” Kíli replied, and while Boromir could not quite make sense of his response he could see that Kíli was deflecting the strange question. Not that wizards ever spoke much clearer, but Mithrandir’s reaction was beyond puzzling this time.

 

“Then I shall hope he did not get lost twice,” the old wizard shot back, his stern mien relaxing somewhat and his beard quivering with hidden laughter, though his eyes still studied Boromir thoughtfully. The moment was interrupted by a smaller, dark-haired figure darting past Gandalf to greet Kíli enthusiastically.

 

Seated on the inner side of the balcony Boromir’s eyes followed the introductions of the different envoys and council members that Lord Elrond was making. Elrond himself had brought several members of his council to this assembly. Among them his sons, an elf named Glorfindel, another elf named Erestor and one named Duathaelin, Boromir tried to commit all the names to memory to be able to tell them apart in the future. Next he introduced Galdor, an envoy from the Grey Havens, to Boromir’s eyes he mainly stood out through his pale hair and different bearing, the envoy from Lothlorien was named Siltir and the envoy of Mirkwood, Legolas. “I never knew there were that many elven realms,” Boromir observed so softly that only the man sitting beside him could hear.

 

“Elrond only sent for the great kingdoms – had he chosen to invite a few more groups, there would be more.” Aragorn replied as softly.

 

Elrond turned to introduce the Halflings – Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee– next, and Mithrandir, though the old wizard hardly needed an introduction. Then he continued with the group seated further down the aisle, with a considerable distance to the elven envoys. “Prince Kíli and his son Anvari, of the dwarven Kingdom of Erebor,”

 

A frown creased Boromir’s eyebrows, he had certainly known Kíli was a warrior and must play some role at the dwarven court to be sent here by his King, though nothing had indicated that he was the son of the Dwarf King. He vaguely recalled that the reports of the Gondorian envoy at Erebor mentioned the extended family of King Thorin, all of them with confusingly similar names.

 

“He did not tell you?” Thorongil sounded slightly amused. “He never does.”

 

Their conversation was cut short, because they were the next, and last, to be introduced. “Many are the errands that have brought you to this council,” Elrond spoke as he sat down in his seat. “though all of them are of the same purpose, though you yet might not know it. The Shadow is growing long again and the Enemy is stretching forth his hands, his messengers haunting the roads once more. Some of you may already have been approached by them.” His glance fell to the dwarves.

 

Kíli rose, taking a step forward. “We were approached indeed earlier this same year. Two Easterling messengers came to Erebor, their names Trakhaine, who once was known as Tungar-Sula, the other Idramar. They were sent by the Lord of Barad-Dûr to extend the offer of an alliance, asking questions about Halflings and where they might be found, wishing that we turn the one they knew to be our friend over to them along with a ring ‘the least of all Rings that he once stole,’ offering the remaining rings of the Seven and the realm of Moria in turn.”

 

Boromir sat up straight, if the East extended such an offer they were either deadly serious or testing the waters on how far they could push an unsuspecting nation. It was said that the Dorvinión had made the mistake to dally with the East for too long nearly two centuries ago. And he also knew that such an offer was also a hardly veiled threat of war, a portent of doom for whomever it befell.

 

“Have your people already given answer to this entreaty?” Galdor inquired.

 

“King Thorin gave them their answer immediately, sending Trakhaine home carrying the head of Idramar to tell the Dark Lord that there will never be an alliance between him and Durin’s folk.”

 

“But that is a declaration of war, by sending back the head you made this a challenge to the Easterling Empire!” Boromir could not hold back the words. It was a brave, courageous and proud answer – and one that would rile the Eastern Empire to no end. Sending back the head of the messenger was something Prince Shangraile had done at the beginning of the War of the Storms, it was a symbol of deepest despise. “They will have their Legions down on you before the year is out.”

 

“I know, their armies had crossed the Sea of Rhûn and were marching on Erebor when we left.” Kíli looked directly at him, the answer not directed at the council but at Boromir alone. “The war was coming either way and we had decades to prepare for it. Trakhaine promised to return at the head of an army eighty years ago, and there was no doubt he would make good on his threat.”

 

“Stalling could have bought you valuable time,” Erestor said. “no one doubts the courage of your people, Prince Kíli, but negotiation could have bought you months or years even.”

 

“My people once made the mistake to exchange words with the Dark Lords, when they touched the Seven long ago and we paid for that folly dearly, Erestor.” Kíli replied politely to the elf, but there was steel in his voice. “We will never make that mistake again, and we will not pretend otherwise.”

 

Elrond forestalled further discussion amongst his court with the raising of his hand. “It was well that should reveal this in this council, Prince Kíli,” he said as the dwarf sat down again. “for there would have been no other choice left to you to fight, with or without hope. This doom stretches beyond your homeland and into all of the world, and it is upon us to reveal the Enemy’s true purpose. Frodo – bring forth the Ring.”

 

The Halfling rose and slowly walked towards the stone table in the middle of the balcony where he placed a golden ring on the clean surface. A shiver ran down Boromir’s spine when he felt a presence, like a creeping Shadow darken the entire aisle, colder and darker than even the dungeons under the dread city. This… this could not be such a minor ring? Was it a weapon?

 

Elrond had risen, his tall figure towering over the table. “The tale of this Ring is a long one – and its beginnings lie shrouded in Shadow, but I shall tell what is known of its beginning, though others will have to finish my tale.” He spoke, his keen eyes holding their attention effortlessly.

 

When Elrond began to speak of the Last Alliance, the battle against Sauron and of Isildur, Boromir followed his words spellbound. It was a tale that he knew at least partially, but the Elf’s resonant voice, the knowledge that one who had seen the great battle was speaking, gave the story a gravitas it had never held before. When Elrond finished, speaking of Isildur who perished at Gladden fields he cast a long look in the assembly. “And for threethousand years the Ring passed from memory, lost and forgotten – until now.”

 

“So this is Isildur’s Bane?” Boromir asked, remembering the Riddle again, the dream that had summoned him here. “How… how can we be sure?” Deep down he knew it was true, the darkening shadow of this thing was too deep to not be what it was claimed to be, but a greater part of him still hoped it was not. That the dread Bane was not found, that the time of the final testing, that would put the strength of the world to its final trial was not yet come. His gaze met with Thorongil’s and he could see the same feelings mirrored in the other man’s eyes.

 

“This is a long tale, Boromir of Gondor.” Elrond sat down again. “And it is not mine to tell, because ‘tis truly a wondrous tale how the ring was found.”

 

All eyes went to Frodo and Mithrandir who sat side by side and the Hobbit straightened up a little. “Seven years ago when I prepared to leave my Uncle Bilbo’s care at Erebor,” he cast a small smile towards Kíli, “my Uncle came to me in great haste after a sudden attack of a Frostwyrm on the Skydome Hall. He seemed deeply distraught and worried, though at the time I attributed it to two of his closer friends having been killed in the fighting. He gave me a book and a stone box holding the Ring, instructing me to take both with me and bring them to Gandalf, to seek his help with the artifact.”

 

“And I was surprised and deeply troubled when I found a letter from Frodo in Bree insinuating that Bilbo had happened upon one of the Seven, sending it away from Erebor in haste, lest it bring a similar curse like the Ring of Thrór wrought upon Durin’s House.” The old wizard cast a sidelong glance at Frodo. “A certain young Halfling had read his Uncle’s research and was deeply worried about the conclusions Bilbo had arrived at. When I came to the Shire and saw the Ring for myself and read Bilbo’s research, I had to agree with his conclusions – it had to be a late work of Celebrimbor… or worse. What was missing though was how the item had come into Bilbo’s possession, scholar though he was, he did not consider the story of the finding of any significance in the lore. He had shared little of events with Frodo, and some more with his most trusted friends,” Gandalf looked to Kíli.

 

The dwarf leaned forward as he took up the tale. “No one could tell the story in full, for Bilbo was alone at the time. When he accompanied us to retake Erebor eighty years ago and we were captive in Goblin town, he and one other of our number…” Kíli hesitated speaking on, for a moment his eyes went to Boromir. “evaded capture and set the Goblin city aflame, with the rope he climbed fraying Bilbo fell into the deep chasm beneath the Goblin fortress. Down there, in the lost deeps, Bilbo found the ring lying in the sand by a cave pool, soon after he encountered a creature named Gollum. A dangerous beast that attacked him after some conversation, Bilbo stabbed it into the shoulder and escaped the cave, by accident discovering that the Ring would render him invisible. He managed to flee and catch up with part of the group as they were set upon by Azog.” He inclined his head to the wizard, indicating he had nothing else to say.

 

“I had wondered how Bilbo had escaped all on his own at the time,” the old man took up the tale again. “but he had proven himself so resourceful during the events in Goblin Town and very courageous when he saved Thorin from Azog, that I found it hard to doubt his skill. And I never thought of the events again until the day Frodo showed me the book and the Ring. The only being that could confirm some of my suspicions was of course Gollum, but the creature was long gone, the trail cold. So I called upon the help of the Dunedain and spoke to Aragorn of my worries, of my fears for what this find might mean.”

 

Boromir’s gaze went from the wizard to the other Man, it was truly strange how all their fates had become somehow tied to this small thing, that in turn had led them to this precise moment. Aragorn’s gaze found his and the Ranger nodded. “And I agreed that finding Gollum was the key to any answer and while the trail was cold no creature no matter how cunning passes entirely without leaving traces. There were no clues to be found in Wilderland at first and my search led me further and further to the southern edges of the Brown Lands and towards the very edges of the Mountain of Ash, where I heard whispers of him but did not find the creature. Until I came upon the strangled body of a small Orc lying near a pond by the Northern Edge of Ithilien where it borders on the dead marshes. Part of the Orc had been eaten by raw teeth, then left to rot. When I searched further I found tracks leading along the edge of the Dead Marshes leading North, until I caught him by the edge of stagnant mere in the Brown Lands and brought him to Mirkwood.”

 

Gandalf leaned back in his chair. “The questioning of Gollum revealed that he indeed had found the Ring in the Great River, near Gladden fields, acquiring it through murder, and losing it the very same day he encountered Bilbo under the Misty Mountains. Unfortunately I also learned that his search for the ‘thief’ as he termed Bilbo had led him to the very edges of the Black Lands… where he was captured.”

 

Boromir frowned, leaning forward, arm resting on the side of the chair. “Captured and interrogated? If so, the Enemy will know all we know, if not more.”

 

“Gollum had little to give but what he had was squeezed from him,” Gandalf said a tad more sharply. “between his screams and curses they learned a few things, the words ‘Baggins’ and ‘Shire’ along with ‘dwarves’ and ‘elven blade’ as Bilbo must have mentioned his dwarven companions and unfortunately used his sword against Gollum. And of course the Enemy learned of the Ring, that it had been found, that it was in the hands of one Baggins who had links to the Shire and to Dwarves and might have been of some Elvish kind.”

 

“Too much for the Enemy to know already,” Boromir said grimly. “I hope you gave swift judgment to the creature that caused so much trouble?”

 

“He is in the prisons of Mirkwood,” Gandalf replied, leveling a cool gaze on Boromir. “this was not the time to judge him yet, the darkness lies heavy on him and so does fear. Yet, I believe that our judging him would have been wrong, so I tasked the Mirkwood Elves to guard him but treat him kindly.”

 

“Sadly, this is the time to reveal the news I was sent here with,” Legolas of Mirkwood rose. “the creature Smeagol, Gollum as he is now called has escaped.”

 

“Escaped?” Aragorn too stood, a hint of temper in his entire demeanour. “How? He is dangerous still and there is evil worked upon him and evil deep seated inside him – the price of his escape might be a bitter one.”

 

“He had help from others – from what beings from Southern Mirkwood I dare not assume,” Legolas replied. “we did not keep him in the dark dungeons, for Gandalf bade us to try for a cure, and down in the deeps the darkness to easily had reach of him.”

 

“How kind of you,” Kíli tilted his head, casting a challenging glance at the elven Prince. “either you learned kindness these passing years or the preferences of your guards are truly strange.”

 

Boromir could see an almost violent tension in the dwarf’s demeanor, his shoulders were squared, both hands clutched to the sides of the chair, knuckles white.

 

“This is not the time to re-visit old grudges, Kíli,” Prince Elrohir had spoken up, his voice calm and steady. “what happened then has little compare to what Gandalf asked of King Thranduil. This matter is greater than the strife between your peoples.”

 

With a slow exhale Kíli relaxed, though Boromir was sure it was more of a forced relaxing than anything else. “Of course, Elrohir.”

 

Gandalf swiftly took control of the discussion before it could escalate further. “With all that I head learned from Gollum I had little doubt of what the nature of this Ring was, yet I still lacked proof. And thus I turned to the archives of Gondor, where I found a scroll written by Isildur himself amongst many of the old records. And therein I found what I had sought – the proof, the trial of fire that would reveal the Ring’s true nature. From there I turned North in haste and returned to Bag-End, where all my fears were confirmed – that this is indeed the One Ring, the Ruling Ring which was cut from the Enemy’s hand by Isildur and lost at the Great River three millennia ago.” He sighed. “And thus I bade Frodo to make for Bree while I sought council with Saruman the White… a graver mistake I never committed in my entire life, for Saruman turned traitor upon us and I was prevented from aiding Frodo any further.”

 

All eyes went to the Halfling who sat beside Gandalf, and seemed more than a little hesitant to speak. “I left the Shire together with Sam,” he eventually began. “hoping to be swift and quiet, though there were Riders, Black Riders, asking for Baggins. We hid best that we could and avoided the road. In Bree we met a Southern Man who helped us greatly, smuggling us out of the town unseen and showing us a path through the wilds.” The Halfling ducked his head. “He seemed hard, yet not unkind and he saved us twice from roving Orcs… we trusted him completely until we came upon the ruin of Amon Sûl where... where he betrayed us to the Riders. Or… maybe he had worked for them all along, I do not know.”

 

“Was there anything remarkable about that Southerner?” Boromir asked, he could smell an Easterling plot when he saw one and that was their cunning at its Best. Not making an ruckus, and while the Nazgûl were scaring up half of the North, quietly finding the right person and getting their hands on them. “Any mark by witch he could be recognized?”

 

“You think you might recognize the man?” Aragorn interjected, “there a tens of thousands of their kind in the service of the Enemy.”

 

“The style feels familiar, Aragorn – and even if I do not know him, knowing by what to recognize a prominent soldier of the Nine is always an advantage. Wherever he shows up again, it has to be of some interest for Minas Morgul – knowing that can prove important one day.”

 

“There was not much,” Frodo had kneaded his fingers into each other, as he answered the question. “except for a scar at his jaw. Had it not been for Aragorn who caught up with us at Weathertop Sam and I would be dead. But the Riders hunted us right to the Ford of Rivendell.”

 

Silence fell as Frodo’s tale ended and Elrond thanked him with a curt nod. “And now the Ring is here, in our hands and before the council of what remains of Middle Earth’s free people. It is up to you to decide its fate – though the only safe way to rid the world of its evil would be to carry it back to Mordor, into the Fires of Mount Doom and destroy it in the very forge whence it was made.”

 

Boromir’s eyes went to the golden ring on the table, so small, so insignificant and such a shadow whispering from it, whenever he looked at the artifact he could feel a cold breath brush by him, much like the whispering echoes in the dungeons of Minas Morgul. “Is it a weapon?” he asked, looking directly to Elrond. “can it be used against the Enemy?”

 

“It cannot,” Gandalf had risen. “for it is too vile, too dark and too treacherous to be used safely by anyone. It would twist its wearer as it did twist Gollum, as it was twisting Isildur… I can only assume that Bilbo escaped the taint to such an extent was either in his own nature or that he used it sparingly, not even carrying it with him always. No, Boromir, the Ring cannot be used and it cannot be hidden much longer – destroying it, is the only path left to us.”

 

“And it has to be first fire, the flame from which it came?” Kíli had risen, while he kept his distance to the stone table, his eyes were studying the Ring and Boromir wondered what the dwarf, who had seen so much in the shards of Narsil, might see in this Ring. “No other fire will do it? Soulfire? A Dragon?”

 

“There is no flame in this world strong enough to destroy this Ring,” Elrond answered the question. “it holds the powers of Sauron himself and parts of his existence, Kíli, son of Thorin, no Soulfire will harm it, no dragon’s fire can harm it, and no other ancient flame will even dent it. Only the flame in which it was made can unmake it.”

 

“That being the Cracks of Doom?”

 

Boromir shook his head, Faramir had been right, there was another doom waiting here and one that might not have any escape. “You cannot hope to bring the Ring there – Mordor’s borders are guarded by legions of loyal soldiers, myriads of Orcs and worse creatures then them. The Shadow does not sleep, the silent watchers do not rest and his messengers are always watchful… the Great Eye…” his voice trailed off and he had to force himself to continue. “Mordor is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, ash, and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Even the Orcs do not survive for long if left to their own devices, and since the Black Tower rose again, the few hideouts in the dark land have been dwindling away. It cannot be done – not with all the armies of the free world at your back.”

 

“Maybe not with all the armies of the world at our back, but with stealth and secrecy,” Aragorn spoke, before any of the Elves could chastise Boromir for speaking plainly. “’tis not a task for an army, nor for a banner – but a task for few, very few, daring enough to slip past the silent watchers, the shadow and the Eye itself, it has to be done – for it is our only hope.”

 

In this moment Aragorn reminded him of Faramir more than ever, this was not the soldier but the Ranger talking, the Man who braved the Shadows and dared to walk in places no sensible captain entered with his company, and Boromir had to respect the courage it took. “Hope?” he asked, his voice low. “Hope is the ray of dawn that might drive the Orcs away but certainly will bring Haradrim reinforcements.”

 

Aragorn was unfazed by his answer, a sparkle rising in his eyes. “And they will be mightily puzzled when they do not find us, if we sneak past them.”

 

Boromir could not help it, he had to smile at the joke. Rangers! Always playing their game with friend and foe, daring, brave and utterly crazy, suggest their plan to any captain in the army, and the answer would always that no sensible soldier came up with such crap, but please go and try… and yet… he had seen what Faramir had accomplished in the long years of war, and Irdáin… who had reached him hoping against hope, in the dread city itself. There was more to a Ranger’s courage than the soldier in Boromir might understand, but he did trust them. “Very well, then,” he said. “if you believe in it, then we have to try.”

 

“Which brings us back to destroying the Ring,” Elrond said. “a quest to be undertaken only by those strong enough to hope and mayhap small enough to go unnoticed.”

 

With a sigh Frodo rose, he had listened intently to all that had been said. “I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way.” He said firmly.

 

“Frodo,” Kíli was at his feet.

 

“No, Kíli… it is only right. Bilbo would do it himself, could he be here with us. The Ring… it wrought so much evil, so much darkness on everyone it touched – in the past and to this very moment. It is time it was ended.”

 

Gandalf had risen too. “And I will help you bear this burden, as long as it is yours to bear,” he announced firmly.

 

Samwise jumped to his feet, he had been silent throughout the proceedings, staring at the elves and other people with wide eyes. “I will come with you, Master Frodo… not that I fancy seeing that fiery Mountain, I dare say…”

 

Frodo smiled warmly at his stout companion, putting his hand on Sam’s arm, so the other Hobbit came to stand beside him. “Thank you, Sam.”

 

Surprised Boromir looked at the small Halfling, he seemed so young, so vulnerable, though there was a strength of will, a firm presence with him that belied his weak appearance. He marveled at Frodo’s courage to dare touch a burden that no one else in the assembly would dare carry. Still he would need some good fighters to aid him on his way, to carve a path through the dangers that lay between here and Mount Doom. Aragorn was the first to volunteer, his words so earnest and sincere, a commitment that Boromir found admirable. He rose too. “Our fate is tied to yours now, Frodo Baggins, and I will protect you best that I know how.” He saw Aragorn’s short nod, reaffirming their agreement from before that they’d have to try and in his heart Boromir thought that maybe Aragorn had enough hope for them together.

 

Kíli and Anvari had risen the same moment as Boromir, walking over towards them. “You don’t think you can go without us, Frodo?” there was a warm, encouragement in Kíli’s voice. “No matter where this road will lead you, we will come with you.”

 

“But… but what of Erebor?” Frodo asked. “And of the Army you are sending South? They will need you.”

 

“Erebor is well defended and the army is in the best possible hands with Dwalin,” Kíli told him. “neither I nor Anvari could do better than him. And I fear we will meet him and his fighters before all is over.”

 

“From here on out all roads lead into war,” Elrohir had risen, his eyes going to the Elf standing behind him – Aelin – who followed him without a moment’s notice and without any hesitation. “and we will come with you on the road that doom has set for you.”

 

Looking at the group standing assembled, Boromir felt a chill run down his spine. Two Halflings, two elves, two dwarves, two men and a wizard… all the strength the world had yet to give assembled in one quest, in one path leading towards the Heart of the Shadow. The Light help them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> The Council scene is a mix of book and movie ideas, shaken, stirred and put through the Raven’s Blade seasoning. ;) I hope it helps to recount a lot of the small stuff without being boring. 
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	4. To be re-forged

A cool autumn dawn graced the valley of Rivendell, casting long shadows over the hidden elven realm, the siblings walking slowly down the winding path of the gardens had no eyes for the beauty of the evening. “I do not like it, Elrohir and I cannot put my finger on what is wrong, which I dislike even more.” Arwen shook her head, her long black rustling against her dress. “It feels wrong, like a surge… of what I cannot tell, and when I try to see more, it feels like I am standing on the outside watching a tempest unfold – only the tempest cannot reach me, like I am the only being shielded from it somehow.”

 

“Grandmother worked some powerful protections on you when you were younger,” Elrohir smiled warmly at his younger sister, sometimes he could still see the fragile girl she had been so long ago, and though she had grown far from that elfling she was still the sister he felt very protective of. “some of them might still be in effect. They might shield you against the storm that is rising.”

 

“It is not that,” Arwen stopped, turning to face her brother, she was not quite as tall and had to look up to him. “it is something subtle, a whirl of events, of things spinning out of their path, it touches you, it touches this place… and I am the only one untouched, Elrohir. It feels like I am standing at the center of a whirlwind. And I cannot see anymore, the waters will not answer me, the wind refuses to speak at all…”

 

Gently Elrohir clasped her shoulders, seeing how distraught she was. “Maybe you are not supposed to see? Maybe the wind and waters refuse your call because you are not meant to know what is to come. Not knowing what lies ahead of us might prove a mercy. Could it be that you are so upset because it is the future of a certain Ranger that is clouding to your eye?”

 

Arwen shot him a glare that could put her famous grandmother to shame. “I am seeing my older brother march off on a quest – and I see father hide his worry about a vision he had, he does hide it well but he fears for you, Elrohir. And Estel – he is no help at all, telling me that danger soon will be everywhere and that I should go to the havens!”

 

“He is talking sense then,” Elrohir knew that he better step carefully, his sister might look like a fragile elf but her anger was formidable. Of all three of them she had inherited their grandmother’s power along with a temper that was not easily curbed. “Arwen – we all want to know you safe, protected.”

 

“And what difference does it make to our father if you do not return from the quest?” Arwen raised her hands to clasp Elrohir’s shoulders much as he did hers, wanting to hold him. She knew of her father’s fear for all of them, but Elrohir seemed set on rushing into the bloodstorm. “Losing me, losing you… why is it such a difference? And don’t tell me that it is my heart’s folly that is the difference.”

 

“I have not said that,” Elrohir pointed out.

 

“But you are thinking it,” Arwen’s blue eyes sparkled fiercely. “you never approved of him, or of my wish. And father…”

 

Taking her hands between his, Elrohir wondered why their father had ever tried to dissuade Arwen, his sister was the most headstrong elf he had ever known, though he wondered if she knew enough of the world she prepared herself to choose. “Father is speaking to Estel at this very moment – reminding him that Narsil needs to be re-forged, that the world of Men will need a leader against the Shadow… he does this because it is the right thing to do, even as he knows the price it will cost him.”

 

“And I hate causing him so much pain,” Arwen sighed. “and I fear… for Estel, for the path he has to choose. There was a time when I could see the path before him clearly, but now… it all blurs and I feel like I am behind a wall trying to reach out.” She looked up to her brother. “Have you ever seen a thirteen-pointed star, Elrohir? Layered thrice and swirling like a wheel of fire? It’s been haunting my dreams… I stand in the darkness and see that star swirl above me, I feel I know what it means and run towards it, but the world shatters around me and I fall…”

 

Gently Elrohir hugged his sister, holding her close. He had no idea what her dreams meant and that she asked him and not his well-read twin told him that Arwen sought shelter and protection more than knowledge. “Maybe it is a warning, Arwen – as warning that if you try to reach something too fiercely, your own actions will shatter it.”

 

Suddenly Arwen chuckled into his shoulder. “When did you become so annoyingly wise, Elrohir?” She asked softly. “Where’s the times when I could simply cry into your shoulder and you’d not know what to say? We should not have you let run wild with your dwarven friend – it changed you.”

 

“Constants are an illusion, the only thing perpetual is change,” Elrohir gingerly stroked her dark hair. “it is why Elves fear the world – we do not change, or do not wish to change and the world forces us to do so.”

 

Arwen pulled back and met his eyes evenly. “If I am to accept the changes in you – the changes this road will bring to you, can you accept my changing as well? Can you embrace the changes I am going to choose?”

 

“Always and always, no matter how deep you run into the woods, I shall find you.” Elrohir replied softly, it was an old promise between them, from days when they both had just been mere children, and one he had repeated to her when the Shadows grew longer and the world began to darken. “No matter what happens, no matter how much you change, you will always be my little sister.”

 

Still holding onto his hands Arwen smiled. “Then we will find each other again – no matter where this storm will carry us. Oh… but I hope that Ada talks some sense into Estel.”

 

TRB

 

He had not planned to return to the Hall of Remembrance, but Boromir found his steps again led him there late in the night. Ever since Elrond had spoken of the Last Alliance in the council the depictions in the hall had been on his mind. Unable to sleep he had wandered back to the quiet hall where the murals commemorated the fall of Sauron. Only this time the fight against the Dark Lord himself held little of Boromir’s attention – his eyes were on the background, the many smaller battle scenes, the thousands fighting, throwing their lives against the Shadow. What had called them to that battle? What fierce will bade them fight? Had they too stood at the brink and seen their world tumble towards the darkness? Or had they truly believed the Shadow could be defeated? Had they held to a hope the first age had bequeathed to them? Or had they too just seen the Shadow loom above them and fought best that they knew how?

 

“A man is as young as his hopes and as old as his doubts,” A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts; Aragorn stood only a few steps away by the mourning statue with the bier.

 

“Which makes the both of us old men,” Boromir tore his eyes away from the depictions of battle and focused on the Ranger. He had a good guess what had brought him here at this hour too. Pushing away from where he stood, Boromir joined Aragorn opposite of the statue, his eyes tracing over the shards of the blade. “I never heard of a sword being re-forged – can it even be done?”

 

“A spellsmith can do it,” Aragorn replied, they both understood what doubts had driven the other here. “though I wonder if it should be done. Isildur brought doom upon Men, and his weakness lives on.”

 

Boromir crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Is that truly your reason, Aragorn,” he had consciously tried to not call him Thorongil anymore, though a part of him would always link this man with that name. “or is this the Ranger talking? I know your kind – always hidden, working from the Shadows, no one ever knowing what you did… are you truly doubting your strength or just shying away from stepping out of the Shadows?”

 

“You really do know Rangers,” Aragorn observed, arching an eyebrow slightly.

 

“My brother is one of them and I see the change in him every time – the change between the Ranger Captain who is barely known outside his own troops and the son of the steward, right hand to his father. Sometimes they are nearly different people and he is as good at doubts as you are.”

 

“Which would explain where you learned to doubt so well,” Aragorn’s voice was almost bemused, though it lasted only a moment before his face became dark again. “It is not that, Boromir – what I am, who I am, can easily be used against Gondor, against your… our people. I learned that a long time ago, and seeing how long Gondor endured I wonder if it was not better off without Isildur’s blood. I cannot see any strength in me, or the world of Men…”

 

“What do you know of the strength in the world of men, Aragorn?” Boromir challenged him, no true anger in him. “Or your own? This is not about the strength you may or not may have. It was never about you, or me, or any single person. It is about our people – it is about a soldier who saw his entire banner butchered in a Haradrim trap and then came home to find his village scorched – and he still fights. It is about a boy who saw his father vanish under the Shadow and his mother taking her own life plagued by monstrous dreams, a boy who took up his father’s bow and became a Ranger – he is still fighting, it is about a woman who saw her sons dragged away in a raid, who lost her husband in some nameless valley and who still goes out each day and heals the wounded soldiers, who fights to keep them alive and who risks herself out on the fighting fields to reach them in time. She has not given up. That _is_ the strength of men – we may not have the power of the elves, nor the strength of the dwarves, but we do not cave or yield, if we can’t fight any longer we retreat a little and once we caught our breath, we fight once more. And when we fall, another will rise to take our place – we are but stones in the water alone and on our own, but together we are a bulwark that will not break.”

 

Astonished Aragorn studied the Captain of Gondor – the man might not believe in hope, he might believe in doom but he truly and firmly believed in his people. Why he would choose to believe in Aragorn as well was a riddle he could not solve. “Your father had a less good opinion of my family,” he pointed out.

 

Boromir held back on looking to the ceiling. “Thorongil, I do not care how often you and my father argued strategy on the road to Umbar, and I really don’t want to know if you ever smiled too much at Findulas to vex him – let the past have the ashes of all that. I will admit I never spared much thought on a returning King… though knowing you are there, that you can continue the fight will be a good thought…”

 

“… on the day you fall?” Aragorn asked, all temper leaving his voice. “Is that what you are preparing yourself for? To fall? To die… and fearing what will happen to our people on that day?” He could see his words had hit home, the paling face of the other man and the sad expression in Boromir’s green eyes were answer enough.

 

“We all die, Aragorn,” Boromir turned away, leaning his hands on the stone railing. “death is a hunter and he never fails. Maybe ‘tis a mercy that we do know our fate but not the hour, so we cannot run away from it. If the hour of a man is set fate will guide him to the right place.”

 

“That’s a dwarven saying and it is correctly: If Mahal has determined the hour of a dwarrow, he will lead that dwarrow to the right place.” Aragorn bridged the gap between them, standing beside the Boromir whose eyes were fixed on a dark spot down on the lower level of the building. “And you truly believe you are going to die? What notion of doom put that thought into your mind?”

 

Boromir shook his head. “No notion and no thoughts, just Shadows creeping closer and my strength slowly fading… and the shadow of something approaching, like a moment I cannot escape.” He straightened up. “It is most likely folly.”

 

“No, I very much doubt that,” Aragorn replied. “though I’d call it exhaustion.”

 

“Spoken like a healer,” Boromir turned to face Aragorn directly. He did not know why he had shared his premonition of darkness with him, maybe he had lived with it so long that he forgot that others might not feel it the same way. “But the hour will wait on neither.”

 

“Aye,” Aragorn’s eyes held Boromir’s gaze steadily. “and if I am to fight this war, then you will need to let go of your love for the darkest doom… because I will need you at my back.”

 

“So you have decided?” Boromir asked, maybe if he could manage to protect Aragorn until they reached Gondor… maybe Aragorn could change enough of Gondor’s fate, so Faramir would live to see a day without Shadow rise. It was a goal to strive for.

 

“I have, I will take up that sword and come with you – not as a King, or heir of Isildur, but as man fighting for his people; and a friend hopefully. When we survive this night we can find out who we are on the other side.” And he extended a hand to Boromir.

 

The Gondorian clasped his hand around the forearm into a warrior’s-handshake, sealing their compact. “Maybe I was sent here to find more than just doom after all,” he said softly.

 

TRB

 

The blade shrieked on the sharpening wheel and sparks flew in a high arch illuminating the darkening hours of the evening. Aelin saw Kíli shake his head at the item he was working on. “We ought to find another blade for Samwise,” the dwarf observed, testing the blade with his finger and putting it against the stone again. “This will only do to carve up rabbits and peel potatoes for the stew.”

 

“And I’d say if you continue like that poor Sam will never dare to use that knife again because it is so sharp,” Aelin told him. “you have been withdrawn since the council. Unusual for anyone from your esteemed family.”

 

“Maybe I had things to think through.” Kíli grumbled, not interrupting his work on the blade. “We all should have – and be it only thinking on what we will need on the road.”

 

Arching an eyebrow Aelin’s keen eyes pierced the dwarf. “I doubt that it what your mind is beset with. Kíli… I have done my best to not ask, for I can feel that you are hardly ready to speak of it, but I must ask all the same. Boromir… you came with him to Rivendell.”

 

“And?” Kíli looked up casting him a glare. “We met in the Mountains, he did not know the way to Rivendell.”

 

“Do not play this game with me, Kíli, son of Thorin. Others may believe it but I certainly won’t.” Aelin strode over, sitting down on a box, thus being nearly eye height with Kíli. “you keep forgetting that I was there, after the Battle of the Five Armies, when you and your brother lay dying. It was I who showed Boromir how to reverse the bond to save you two – I showed him how to die, Kíli! And now I see him again, alive and unaware of his history with you but well on the way to be friends with you again.”

 

“And you feel that you are owed a few answers,” Kíli packed the dagger aside, leaning his elbows on his knees, his gaze going past Aelin to the fire. “and I wish I had any answers that make any sense. I always knew Boromir might be reborn – a live lived backwards, that much I knew. I knew he had been reborn and that an echo of the bond still exists… but meeting him for real – it is like coming suddenly back to your childhood home and no one is there any more.”

 

“If it was him, his soul, then you would still share the bond,” Aelin wondered how in the world this spell had fallen into mortal hands in the first place. It was nothing to be used lightly and for mortals it became hopelessly complicated. “because the bond is one of the soul, of fate if you will, and it will exist as long as your souls endure. Does he know?”

 

“No.” Kíli’s eyes held onto the flames like they could give him the answers he lacked. “I… Aelin, how do you tell someone that he died for you? How can I even try to tell him of what he went through? He had a life, a world he belonged to – and now for the first time I am gaining a glimpse on this world and his life – a life that he gave up to come back and protect me from the Bane. He _died_ for me – how could I forget that?” Intertwining his strong fingers, Kíli shook his head. “and he has a life worth living here.”

 

“If he came back for you, then most likely because you were an integral part of his life here – or wherever his life transpired.” Aelin knew of only one ritual that could send someone back and it was forbidden, almost nowhere written down and forgotten on the orders of the very elf who had first come up with the rite. “Kíli, fate never repeats itself, there are no circles, only our minds creates such circles to help us understand what is beyond our capability to fathom. You cannot obsess yourself with what might have been – you have to live with what is and at some point Boromir will need to learn the truth. He already begins to feel it – he walks in a place he walked before, he meets those he met before, the barrier that keeps your bond apart will wear thin swiftly. And then you better know what to tell him. Why wait at all?”

 

“Maybe because this time I’d like to truly earn his friendship,” Kíli rose, walking to the fire, reaching into the flames, to let them dance on his wrist. The presence of the flames was always calming. “because I cannot see how I could have deserved such a sacrifice.”

 

“Sometimes you dwarves are the worst complicated beings ever created,” Aelin too rose but kept some distance to Kíli, respecting his wish for space. “you cannot earn friendship – it simply is, and what others perceive in us is not what we can see in ourselves. In the end we all can only be the person we are, we would not know how to be someone else. Kíli, simply be the friend I know you to be and the rest will happen by itself.”

 

Silence fell and then Kíli slowly withdrew his hand from the fire. “You elves are the most complicated beings I ever knew to exist,” he shot back a touch of humor creeping into his voice. “you can transform a simple doubt into a philosophy no one can unravel.”

 

“If we don’t who will?” Aelin asked, glad to see that Kíli came out of his brooding. “Especially as all Dwarven philosophy I know somehow links to a forge.”

 

Pushing away from the fire, Kíli straightened up and tilted his head. “Life is a forge, Aelin, the fire will burn you, the hammer shape you and you have to pass through the flame else you will break.”

 

“I could explain to you how life was a garden – but I’d rather talk of another blade that needs to pass through the flame,” Aelin turned to the topic that had been at his mind all the time. “Narsil is to be re-forged.”

 

He had known that a spellsmith problem would distract Kíli at once from his mood, and he was not disappointed. The dwarf’s eyes lit up almost gleefully. “Those shards are strong, Aelin, stronger than any I have seen – to re-shape them, tremendous strength will be necessary, it’s a star-steel blade so it will have to be done on two flames – forge fire and cold fire, not even speaking of tapping into the ancient spells that were crafted into that sword to realign them. They approached you, I take it?”

 

“There are not many of our kind left, Kíli, not every family is as privileged as yours to have an arcane smith in every living generation and the art has become increasingly rare amongst my people.” Aelin leaned back against the heavy anvil of the forge. “I wanted to ask if you’d join me in this – Narsil was of made by a dwarf and an elf –“

 

“Telchar and Celedirion,” Kíli replied, the history of arcane crafting had been drilled into him since he was a dwarfling. Narvi had often talked of the great crafters of old, of their works.

 

“Exactly, and I believe it will need an elf and a dwarf again to re-forge the sword.” Aelin knew his own strength very well, and he knew Kíli had grown into his full potential within the last decades, together they would have strength to re-shape what had been broken.

 

“I’ll be honored, Aelin.” Kíli inclined his head, turning to the business at hand. “you have a ritual already in mind, I assume?”

 

“There is only one that might work on a blade of such strength – and it will take every ounce of strength and will from both of us to succeed.”

 

TRB

 

Darkness had sunken on the valley of Rivendell, a cool autumn night embraced the sleeping elven realm, the wind rustling faintly in the almost barren trees. It was a strange dichotomy to the forge brightly alight, or so Boromir felt. Aragorn had asked him to be present when the forging was done, and Boromir was honored to do so. Outside of Aragorn and the two spellsmiths only Anvari was there, he had helped with the preparations and been send on more errands than any runner boy, but now he too retreated to the outer walls of the open forge. “Once begun it must not interrupted,” he said, giving the proceedings a respectful distance.

 

The light was eerie to Boromir’s eyes, two fires burned inside the forge, one a red-hot flame, blazing brightly into the night, the other blue, casting a cold unearthly light onto the other side of the smithy. Between those flames the anvil was but a shadow, a shade of steel holding the sixteen pieces of the broken blade. Kíli and Aelin stood at either side, the flames bending towards them like they wanted to burn them alive and then the flames sprang from the fire racks and ran over the floor forming a circle around both spellsmiths. There were no words necessary, and unheard _it has begun_ hung in the air either way. The shards began to glow in the twilight of the flames, and when the first hammer fell upon them a spark raced between them, like a fiery line.

 

Sixteen shards raised from the dark, now remaining hope's last ward,

from the elven star's first rising, to the waning moon's last guard. 

 

Boromir could hear Aelin’s clear voice rise above the the crackling of the flames and the ringing of the hammers, the elven smith’s hammer came down on a small shard close to the hilt of the blade and with bright flame engulfing both pieces and his hand and hammer, the shards merged, becoming one.

 

Fifteen shards touched by light from which the deepest shadows flee

the memory of pains long gone the river carries to the sea.

 

Kíli’s deep voice was steady, a ringing echo of his hammer and the blue flame engulfed his hand and another piece of the shards merged with the hilt. The dwarf was a strange sight to Boromir’s eyes now, part of his face illuminated by the bright flame, casting warm light and soft shadows on his face, the other side of him steeped into the uncanny light of the blue fire, colder, darker and for a moment Boromir wondered if that light revealed a more powerful side of the spellsmith.

 

Fourteen shards drawn from the deeps, shaped for only one man's hand

and as a warrior unknown, he still does guard the ancient land. 

 

Aelin again, his voice counterpart to Kíli’s, like his power was in this forging. The hammer came down three times, each hit precise and strong, as one of the large shards became one with blade again.

 

Thirteen shards call to the night under which the world lies

to guard and shine as burning brand when the darkness soon will rise.

 

The blue and red lines of flame hissing here and there between the shards on the anvil became more intense, Boromir could see them almost reach for Kíli, their greedy tongues licking at his arm. Why did he feel he had seen such a scene before? In a dream maybe? An imagination caused by an ancient story he might have heard? He did not know, but the figure of dwarf illuminated by the flames at the anvil felt so familiar to him.

 

Twelf shards drawn from one fire that makes even shadows cower,

but if not held by the right hand, the dark may be the strongest power.

 

Was it only his imagination or had Aelin’s voice been strained this time? The elven spellsmith worked with the same precise hammer blows as before, but Boromir perceived a tension, a slight strain in his voice.

 

Eleven shards call to the star rising from the east afar,

And to those who know his name he brings death and he brings war

 

Kìli’s voice had sunk deeper, almost a grumble against the echoes of the forge. In the light of the flame Boromir could see the dwarf almost wince when his hammer again touched the shards, he did not truly wince but there was a short tensing in him.

 

“What is happening with them?” he asked, wondering what kind of strain this spell… this magic wrought on them.

 

“It is their souls,” Anvari replied, his eyes on the process with an eerie fascination. “their souls are now linked with the shards, each lick of flame burning them, each blow of the hammer crushing them – it is what an arcane crafter must do to succeed.”

 

Ten bright shards drawn from the seas, rising with the dancing tide,

call for them in deepest night, they will guide to the light.

 

Aelin’s voice was clearly strained now, though his work was as steady as before. The flames drew closer to the elf, the blue fire giving him an aura of cold power, reflecting in his eyes. Though when the shard merged with the main blade, the fire seared higher and Boromir could see the sweat marring the elf’s brow.

 

Nine shards call to night's deep dreams, that has neither wit nor will,

but rises the last winter moon, they bring sleep to the land still.

 

The heavy hammer falls merged another piece of the blade to the hilt, half of the sword was already re-assembled, the other pieces glowing angrily on the anvil.

 

“It is half done,” Aelin’s did not pant but he had to push the words out, his arms shaking slightly. “it is half done and the strength is flowing back into the blade. Let it be done before the darkest hour wanes.”

 

This time it was Kíli who took up their chanting again, though Boromir perceived the dwarf’s movements were slower and he raised the hammer in a less powerful rhythm.

 

Eight cold shards drawn from the storm, rising in the North alone,

guiding you from the lost lands, to the Southern city's dome.

 

Seven shards call to the light, from the shadows of the tower,

but if not led by the true hand, the dark may be the strongest power.

 

With each new word Boromir could hear the strength wane from Kíli’s voice, he could almost feel like something invisible was sapping on the dwarf’s strength, drawing it out of him and into the merging blade. Kíli’s other hand had found purchase on the side of the anvil, steading him against falling.

 

Six shards rising from the mists under the dreaming silver tree

walk the path through lands forlorn, down towards the southern sea.

 

Five shards calling out to doom that swiftly rose above the land,

No one ever heard their voice, though their whisper brings the end.

 

Aelin too had found hold to stand firmly as he continued the work, the elf’s arm was shaking, his voice marred with strain but he did not give in, each blow finding the right spot, guiding the flames to merge what had been broken.

 

Four shards rising from the river, running from the peaks up North,

Their passage unmarked, their path forlorn, their anger lives forth.

 

Three shards call out to the flame, that shapes them to a burning brand,

to guide and shelter in the darkness, when wielded by the truthful hand.

 

A searing pain burned in Boromir’s forearm for a moment, he could feel an exhaustion, a deep painful strain inside him. He saw Kíli throw back his head in pain, in agony as he finished the next pieces. Boromir did not know why he felt it, but he knew that Kíli was on the verge of collapsing, pouring all his strength and will into this blade that soaked up his strength like sand would soak up water.

 

Two shards united in the light that will cleave the darkest tower,

Wait for a king in deepest night, to break the dark Lords cruel power.

 

One shard to go this path alone, one man to guide them in the fight,

to oppose the Shadow always looming, challenging the deepest night.

 

Aelin had lost his elven countenance, strain and exhaustion marking him as he pushed the words out, his work slowing even more, each blow of the hammer requiring more and more strength, more and more power of will.

 

When the star of ancient battles rises from the east afar,

and to us who know his true name he brings fire, he brings war.

 

Both hammers came down on the blade together, the last rallying of all the strength both spellsmiths had still to give to finish what they had begun. The flames rose again, leaping onto the blade itself, blue and red flame engulfing the sword entirely, not letting go of both crafters. The blade shone in a light brighter than summer sun, a light so radiant it outshone the fires. A tone echoed through the forge, like a bell ringing from afar and echoing out, as the blade reset in its old form, firmly reforged, not one crack visible, no trace that it ever had been broken still there.

 

The fires burned out, leaving nothing but ash and the newly forged blade on the anvil. Kíli collapsed to his knees, his body shaking with exhaustion, Boromir could feel the pain and the numbing cold that seeped into the dwarf. Closing his eyes he accepted the feeling, trying to somehow reach for it, and then… it happened. Like it had so long ago, he saw a flame rise in the darkness and saw a familiar figure rise from it. Only in his mind, fare away from the forge or even Rivendell they stood face to face for a moment, one moment that might last eternity. And here and now Boromir knew that what he had seen under Minas Morgul had not been a dream, not been an illusion, somehow and for reasons he could not name Kíli had found him there and shared his darkest hours, much as he now shared Kíli’s exhaustion.

 

It ended as swiftly as it had begun and he was back in the forge, opening his eyes and seeing that Kíli had struggled back to his feet, while Aelin had lit one of the elven lanterns. In the silvery light of the crystal lamp Boromir saw Kíli’s bared arms, now outside of the shadow, and he saw a familiar shape, the form of a dragon winding around his sword arm from wrist to elbow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to all where I forgot to answer a review – I am having a bit of a hectic day and spent half the night writing this. THANKS to all who are reading so faithfully.


	5. The Darkness awaits

The Orc’s howls rose to such a high shriek that it became unnerving. Idrakhán was used to hearing the wails rising from the pits under Minas Morgul, but this Orc reached a pitch that it hurt his ears. “Maybe we should have done away with that beast entirely,” he observed, leaning against the broken wall of the Anorian ruin that served as his temporary base.

 

“You should have considered that when we thought of returning back South,” Tani told him; the redhead sat perched on the broken wall and observed the proceedings with the cool eyes of an expert. Hailing from the Helcár province of the Empire he had grown up by the shores of the Great Inland Sea and served the Shadow longer than Idrakhán had. He was maybe the foremost expert for Orc tribes and tongues there were in the black armies.

 

“The mission is not over yet,” Idrakhán said. When he had delivered the Halflings to Weathertop he had been sure their stint in this wretched land would soon be over. Unfortunately the entire plan had unraveled and the Halflings had escaped to the Elves, while the Nine had been defeated, forced to retreat to their lair in Minas Morgul. Idrakhán had not assumed for one moment that the task was over, but it had been time for retreat and regrouping. Recruiting troops was easy in this land – if one had the hard hand to force them into submission. He had thought they might have to lay Siege to Rivendell herself, a challenge he looked forward to, but he had received different orders only two days ago.

 

The message had been short and to the point: _No attack on the Elves – wait for the messengers to leave – then pursue and re-capture Halflings – expect heavy resistance. Run them down – Khamûl is on his way._

 

He had adjusted his plans accordingly; luckily he could make use of an extensive network of traitors and spies that the Moria outpost had recruited in decades past. Trakhaine and Idramar rarely worked in half-measures. Idramar – the name left a fresh jab of pain in Idrakhán, while he had rarely had the chance to meet his father during the long years of service, they had shared a few good months in the Firelands together. Now he had heard that Idramar had been killed by Thorin Oakenshield, his head send back to the Empire as a message. Releasing a slow breath the Easterling pushed past those feelings, Trakhaine would make that dwarf bleed that much was assured and he must not mourn. Mourning meant regrets and regrets were doubts, and doubts were treacherous. “Did the Mountain maggots have some interesting news or was it all just gnashing and bashing?” he asked Tani.

 

The redhead laughed. “Gnashing and bashing is what they do, Idra, but they had some interesting news. They have thousands of captive dwarves in their forges – I had to leave all of my troops there to take control of the smithies. It will be good for our troops to make use of a dwarven-made arsenal, if we can send it east swiftly. Otherwise I learned little of import except that one of those Snagas was sure to have seen Boromir of Gondor cross the Mountains only recently. Make of that what you will.”

 

“Boromir? Up here? We don’t need him to stir up Arnor into any kind of unrest.” Idrakhán grumbled. “He must feel very assured of his defenses if he dares to leave Osgiliath for a prolonged time.”

 

“You should have brought your brother – he can usually think three steps ahead of Boromir and knows what the Lord Captain will do before Boromir even decides to do it.” Tani told him.

 

“No, Shakurán is deep in the war preparations,” Idrakhán replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Shakurán would have the honor to lead the legions against Gondor, a high honor – the soul sacrifice for sure. Idrakhán did not know why Shakurán had been chosen for it, but he had heard whispers that something was off about his brother, something had changed in him since that Corsair disaster two years ago. And that was another topic he could do nothing about, except that he would try and help his nephews when their father’s flame burned out and he became the blood sacrifice to break the Riverline.

 

Another howl rose and Idrakhán made a face. “I have had it,” he pushed away from the column and sauntered into the inner ring of the ruin, where a huge grey Gundabad Orc was chained against the stones. The creature was howling and whimpering under the punishment one Idrakhán’s soldiers administered. Grabbing the Orc’s chin with a hard hand, Idrakhán forced the beast to look at him. “I have heard you are one of the most stupid of your kind, Bolg.” He said, using the black tongue knowing the Orc feared it. “And if you fail one more time I will have you send east, to the pits…”

 

The Orc tried to bark and growl words, Idrakhán understood the gist of it, for the fine translation he’d need Tani.

 

“I know, I know… you and those pesky dwarves…” Idrakhán smiled coldly. “I have a treat for you Bolg: you may hunt some of them. They are travelling with a group of others across the fallen lands – run them down and bring me their companions alive.”

 

He let go gesturing the warriors to unchain the Orc, who staggered to his feet. “Remember Bolg – bring me what I need and you will be spared, fail and you will scream your throat raw in the pits, dreaming of a death that will never be granted to you.”

 

TRB

 

Tiny snowflakes danced in the air, white specks in front of the dim light of the grey afternoon. The barren trees shook in the perpetual western gale and the dry grass rustled softly over the wind’s singing. The day had been a dim one, like the one before and the one before that. With the wind driving a constant flood of heavy grey clouds against the mountains it was easy to forget there was a sun at all, or so Boromir thought as he strode up the rough hill, looking around. Around him the rugged landscape of hills, barren trees and rolling valleys stretched until it became flat somewhere in the west were they Grey River cut a path through the plains of Enedwaidh, and on the other side the hills became steeper and rockier, forming the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Boromir was glad they did not have to venture into these heights again – with the clouds stuck to the high peaks he had little doubt it was snowing heavily up there.

 

His eyes found their group down at the bottom of the valley, marching in a small line. Even from up here he could recognize the different people walking. Gandalf, his hat making for a distinctive silhouette, two smaller figures with a pony, the two Halflings, a third small figure, Anvari, who was mainly tasked with assisting the Hobbits across the rougher patches of ground, and the two tall elves. Which meant that like Boromir, Aragorn weas flank-scouting, on the other side of the group and Kíli was ahead, hunting. It was a marching order that had proved useful these past few days. The scouting forays had allowed them to evade two groups of Orcs that were marching towards the Mountains and slip past a lone rider whose purpose none of them could guess.

 

Again Boromir’s eyes strayed over the wide landscape but he could spot nothing out of the ordinary, only a cold landscape under the grey winter skies. Falling into a quick jog he made his way downhill and along the ridge to gain catch up with the group again. Usually he, Aragorn and Kíli would meet ahead of the others and determine where to turn, or where to make camp for the night. Today Boromir spotted the two familiar figures further ahead than usual, standing in a sweeping vale between two higher rising hills, where a number of boulders rose from the grass. The tall ranger using one of the boulders for semi-cover, while Kíli was squatted down between the rocks, a posture that often reminded Boromir of a Mountain Lynx ready to jump. Something had to be wrong, maybe they had spotted something he had missed. He sped up and reached them swiftly.

 

“I agree, Aragorn, it’s not the same tracks as this morning,” Kíli said, his hand hovering above a few huge paw prints in the mud. “that makes the fourth scout group in a day – if there is no Orc pack behind, I am no dwarrow.”

 

“Orcs?” Boromir asked, as he reached them. “Another pack moving back to the Mountains?” He had swiftly learned that roving bands of Orcs were an everyday occurrence in this part of the world, along with Warg riders.

 

“Maybe, maybe not.” Kíli rose back to his feet. “Four scout groups that we found tracks of within a day – it will get harder to evade them, sooner or later they are bound to sniff our tracks, and then the hunt will be on.”

 

“They might be on the way to their old hunting grounds – the Screaming Cliffs down near Swanfleet,” Aragorn pointed out. “nevertheless we need to be careful and better get across the Whispering Waters before nightfall.”

 

“The Slaughter Cliff you mean,” Kíli grumbled. “I’d feel better if we did not come any closer to that place. So across the Whispering Waters it is.”

 

Aragorn looked to Boromir who shook his head indicating he had seen nothing of import. “Good, Boromir can you go ahead with Kíli and find a place for the crossing? I will tell Gandalf that we are moving deeper into Hollin.”

 

When Aragorn headed back to the group Boromir followed Kíli who had turned southeast and walked up another hill with a few barren trees on top. “These cliffs you spoke off, they are dangerous?” he inquired as they walked.

 

“Aye, they form one of the most comfortable campsites on this side of the Greyflood, right off the Swanfleet swamps,” Kíli told him, his keen eyes never leaving the grounds ahead of them. “and they are one of the Orc’s most favorite raiding places. Mahal alone knows how many caravans and wandering groups have been slaughtered there over the years. There was a time where you could find the bones sticking up from the grounds all along the swamp’s edge.”

 

“Then why did we go so close to it in the first place?” Boromir asked, as they followed the back of the hill towards a steep falling valley. Most of their conversations went that way – ranging from everyday topics regarding the group to the land they were crossing, like both of them were careful to avoid any more personal topic. Ever since he had seen the mark on Kíli’s arm Boromir had wanted to ask about it, but had never been able to find the right words. Did Kíli know the mark’s meaning, or had he been born with it, like Boromir had, marked for a fate that he could not discern? Maybe they both avoided speaking of it, because it was easier to fall into step, to not disrupt the easy camaraderie that had sprung up between them.

 

They reached the edge of the valley and Kíli stopped. “This is the reason,” he replied, stretching his arm to point East. Before their eyes rose the foothills of the Misty Mountains, the hills steeper, though as barren with grass and trees as scarce as before, but rocks now rose more prominently on the hilltops and the valleys were sharper. Deep below them rushed a river through a V-shaped valley so narrow it was almost a ravine, the gurgling noise of the water echoing up to them. On the other side of the ravine Boromir saw a stone arch on a hill, remains of a building long fallen. “from here on out we enter into Eregion, the ruins of the Noldorin Realm of the second age. The Elves dislike wandering the fallen land, most menfolk does too.”

 

Boromir’s eyes strayed over the rough, empty landscape, the barren trees and the ruins echoed a great sadness, like the whisper of something lost and forgotten, however he could not find it just grey and forlorn, this empty land struck a chord inside him, like he had known it for a long time. “It’s beautiful.” He looked down to the dwarf and saw his own smile reflected in Kíli’s eyes. “But how are we going to get the pony across this valley?”

 

“There is a crossing further down,” Kíli told him, before beginning the way down the steep hillside. They had to be careful, but Boromir noticed there was truly a path that led down to the rushing water. They took their time to refill the water skins and then went on, half a mile downriver the valley opened up a little and the river grew wider, strewn with heavy rocks. “We are lucky,” Kíli had squatted down by the waters. “the river is not too high to cross.”

 

It did not take long for the others to reach them, Elrohir leading the others straight to the crossing. “Aelin took rearguard; we spotted a pack of forty Warg riders heading east.” He said, as they guided the group across the river.

 

“Forty?” Kíli whistled. “Someone really stirred them up, or they’d be home in their dens grilling each other until spring returns.”

 

“We should keep marching during the night,” Aragorn said firmly. “we are harder to find when we are moving and can gain ground on the Orcs.”

 

It was a suggestion Boromir agreed with, still he swiftly surveyed the group, it was a habit to gauge their strength and resilience. Not that there was anything to complain about. The two elves were untiring marchers gliding through the rough grounds with the ease of walking shadows, they were with the group most of the time as they would spot dangers swiftest and be able to grab Frodo and escape in case of trouble. Boromir and Aragorn were used to long marches and up till now could considered to be well rested, Kíli and Anvari showed no sign of tiredness either, and the Hobbits were surprisingly tough. Frodo had travelled before and was used to long walks, and Sam… he had been born to the rough life of the lower class of his homeland and was used to hardships. Boromir knew the type, what they lacked in training they made up with their hardiness and often made the best soldiers once properly trained. That left the wizard – and no one would be so daring to ask Gandalf whether he was tired.

 

“Agreed,” Elrohir had answered first. “if we head east we could make use of the of the silver asp grove for cover during the moonlit hours.”

 

They marched on, night fell and the wind became stronger, tearing the clouds apart enough for the moonlight to cast silvery rays on the sleeping land now and then. Boromir was not sure if he was glad about the light or not, on the one hand it allowed him to see a bit better, on the other hand he had to get used to the darkness every time the clouds swallowed up the moon again. They did not use any torches, when it became too dark, the Hobbits were sat on the pony, whose reins were relegated to Anvari and they marched on. Boromir kept closer to Kíli who seemed to have little problem to see in the night, though the Elves had taken the lead, knowing no difference between day and night.

 

Midnight passed and the wind had become stormy, driving the clouds through the skies like dark silken banners before a tempest. The moon cast an eerie twilight in between, making each tree, each tall boulder and each ruin appear like a ghostly, shadowed wraith. It felt to Boromir like the night was growing darker and darker as they marched, in spite of the more and more frequent presence of the moon.

 

They had just climbed another hill, looking for Elrohir to give them direction where to turn when the howl rose – one single wolf howling out into the night with a deep resonant voice, carrying over the wind. A second joined moments after from the opposite direction, answering the leader’s call, a third fell in, until more than dozen of them raised their voices in a fierce howling. “Warg-pack,” Aelin slipped his bow off his shoulder, arrow at the ready.

 

“Can we evade them?” Frodo asked, he had dismounted the pony, drawing his sword. “they are far away still.”

 

“No, Frodo.” Kíli too had taken his bow. “hear them, how they sing in the storm – it’s the hunt and the hunt means us.”

 

“Stay together, Sam and the Pony in the middle, Frodo stay with Sam,” Gandalf had drawn his sword, holding it in the left hand, his staff in the right.

 

Boromir could hear the wolves’ voices all around them. The hilltop was their best chance at a useful defense, because the rocks would provide them with a meager cover. The fighters formed a circle around the Hobbits and the Pony, both elves and Aragorn too taking the bow as his first weapon. Boromir had a hunting bow too, but did not even try. In this dim light he had little chance of hitting anything. Better to safe up the arrows for later.

 

The wolves rushed at them, huge beasts taller than any pony with thick hanging fur and huge jaws. Atop each of the wolves sat Orcs, spurring them into attack. The archers fired in rapid succession, each arrow they sent towards the wargs eliciting a howl and the loud falls of heavy masses. Boromir saw one wolf jump, but his arch broken as Kíli shot him mid-jump, the carcass crashing down on the grass, the Orc managing to pull free and racing at them, Boromir advanced, beheading the creature. Three more came at him, he blocked the first attack as it screeched along his blade, ducking under the second, he stabbed the first of them, kicking the third downhill where he collided with a dying warg. Five wargs came up the hillside where Aragorn stood, four were swiftly weeded out by Elrohir’s bow, the fifth reached Aragorn who awaited it coldly, ramming his blade into the beast’s throat.

 

A howl rose again, a fierce, raging howl like nothing Boromir had ever heard, echoing a rage he could neither understand nor quite read. He only knew that this had just been the beginning. And he was right – out of the dark came dozens of wargs all at once, Orcs storming beside them. He grabbed his sword with both hands, hoping the archers would thin out their numbers before they could reach the hilltop. He was not disappointed, the hissing of the arrows and soft swooshing of the bowstrings were all he heard, before Orcs and Wargs began to tumble downhill. But there were still enough to reach them. The first warg jumped, Boromir ducked and stabbed the overeager wolf in the belly, nearly losing his sword to the momentum. With one angry move he pulled it free, stabbing at the next Orc reaching him. He saw Kíli change from bow to sword as well, joining the fighting.

 

On the other side of the hill Aragorn stood with Elrohir, their swords cutting through the flood of Orcs rushing the hill. If Boromir’s and Kíli’s fighting was firm and solid, a collision of strength and hard muscle, their fighting was a dance of death, faster than the Orcs could anticipate and more lethal than the slow creatures could match with. Two Orcs made it past Boromir and through the rocks into their circle, only to be greeted by Anvari’s blade, the dwarf standing between them and the Halflings. Aelin and Gandalf were dealing with the Orcs who tried the same on the Northern side of the hill, and while both seemingly fought alone with little regard for the other’s fighting style, they were very effective.  

 

When the last Warg fell from Boromir’s blade they stood on a battlefield – strewn hairy carcasses and stinking bodies of Orcs littered the grounds that had become soggy with blood. Not sheathing his blade Boromir looked around, it was still dark but through a huge gap in the clouds he saw the dark land around them illuminated in a pale shine. And there were lights, flickering lights in the valleyground less than half a mile away. “More are coming,” he said roughly.

 

“Many more,” Aelin pointed the opposite direction, where there were two more groups approaching from the North.

 

Turning around on his heel Boromir spotted another group south and two more west. This was no simple Orc hunt, he knew this strategy. “The serpent’s prong!” he spat, “I should have known, the Northern and Southern groups are supposed to drive us West, into the arms of the hunters.”

 

“Daylight can save us,” Kíli said coldy. “we have to hold out till the sun comes up – then they’ll run.”

 

“No, Kíli, they won’t.” Elrohir pointed East, in the light of the moon the steep rock face east of them was no more than a silhouette but atop of the rocks the shape of a rider had become visible. One single rider, black as his horse, a cloak hiding the entire figure, but Boromir felt a cold hand grasp his heart, when he felt the shadow touch him, whisper to him.

 

“Nazgûl,” he whispered. “he is driving them into battle – they will not stop and there’s too many of them for us to fight.” It was the Serpent’s Prong executed to perfection – if they retreated the one direction where they could not see any Orc troops they would have to contend with the Black Rider, and whatever fighters he had with him. ‘Give the enemy hope and then crush it and by doing so crush your enemy.’ Was the very thought behind the strategy. “Aragorn, is there any place where we can lose them, the swamps maybe?” Boromir tried to think for a way out of the trap that was not the usual way out of the trap.

 

“No,” Aragorn’s voice was grim. “it is too far, we can’t outrun them.”

 

“Not for very long,” Elrohir’s eyes were still trained east. “but we can lead them to a place even a Ringwraith will refuse to enter. It’s a five miles run, but if we do it right we can reach it by sunrise.”

 

The elf and the Ranger’s eyes met, and Boromir would not presume to read what went unsaid, but turned back to the dwarf having his back. “Kíli?”

 

“No,” Gandalf spoke up. “we should not take Frodo there, it is too dangerous. The place you speak off is fraught with traps and dangers, it has been abandoned for a reason.”

 

“And our friend out there is not dangerous?” Kíli growled. “We stand the best chance with Aragorn’s plan, let’s not waste any more time.”

 

For a moment Boromir expected the wizard and the dwarf to collide, but then Gandalf went up to Aragorn, ignoring the dwarf. “We must hurry, Gandalf, the Orcs will have us trapped soon.” Aragorn’s voice was thick with urgency and this time the wizard gave in, with a nod announcing his agreement to the plan.

 

Elrohir lifted the Hobbits back on the pony. “Anvari, you are with them, defend them with your life.” He said before taking point with Aragorn. Boromir and Kíli took the rearguard this time, as their race into the darkness began.

 

The wind chased them like a merciless hunter, the gales were so hard they threatened to push them down to the ground as they ran over the uneven side of the steep hill. Behind them and to the sides the howls rose again, the wolves temporarily thrown of their tracks as the wind stood in the wrong direction for them to smell the escapees. The barren trees they passed creaked and cracked in the wind, their branches rattling dryly like drum full of old stones.

 

Boromir could hardly see the course they were taking, down a steep hillside, through a gap of rocks and up another hill. Cowering behind huge rocks they led a group of wargs speed past them, before Elrohir rose again and led them onwards, across a creek and up another, even steeper hill. A small pack of wolves, a scout group reached them, but the fighters made swift work of them, before any could escape and report back to their masters.

 

They scrambled up the steep slopes and through a narrow passage in the rocks, that turned towards the next rising hill. Boromir began to wonder if they were actually climbing the foothills of the Misty Mountains. What place was there that even the Orcs should fear? What kind of place would even a Nazgûl fear to enter? He had no answer for that, but he trusted that his comrades who knew this land had an idea of where they were leading them.

 

When they were up the steep slopes he looked behind, deep down in the hills where the chase had begun he could see the torches still, the Orc groups had met, and now that the prong was failing, they were forming up one large hunting group. With so many torches as he saw flow down there, he guessed it was several hundred of them. If they did not find shelter and a way to hide soon, the Orcs would catch them before the next day was out. Driven by one Nazgûl they would neither stop nor deviate from their target.

 

“Boromir! Up here,” Kíli had stopped at another rocky hillside, in front of something that could be called a rough set of stairs with a little imagination. The dwarf waved him to follow.

 

The stairs were narrow and hard to climb, Boromir taking three at once to get above more swiftly. Kíli was last, having to pull himself up over the last few broken pieces of rock. Boromir grabbed his hand and helped him up, for a moment he felt a tingle running through his arm but it passed once he let go.

 

Panting he looked ahead east, where the first faint light of a new dawn crawled over the mighty mountains. They stood on a kind of high plain, covered with the same yellow grass that grew everywhere in this land. The barren Hollin trees clustered in groups here and there. But ahead of them, in the Shadow of the Mountains and by a lake that was too regularly shaped to be of natural origin he saw it – the ruin of a city, walls and towers, broken gateways and fragile arches reflecting in the dark water. The city was beautiful, even in its broken and abandoned state – and he had little doubt it was of Elven design, having seen their love for arches and winding stairs in Rivendell. Yet, there was something else about this city – a shadow, a presence that he could not name. Like something inside him was warning him not to approach the ruins any closer.

 

They headed on across the plain, the remains of an ancient stone road were still etched into the land, even after centuries the huge stone slabs were still present under a layer of thin earth and thinner grass. When they arrived at what once must have been the city gate, Boromir halted his step, the hair on his neck standing up. He had never perceived such a presence before, not even in the deeps under Minas Morgul. “What is this place?” he asked in a hush.

 

“And under the light of a red moon lay the grave of Celebrimbor to bring the world’s doom, and a Shadow sank on his city so deep that all fled it and no one dared to enter again,” Kíli replied, sounding like was quoting something. “Welcome to Ost-in-Edhil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	6. The veiled city

“Do not take anything you may find, try not to _touch_ anything if you can help it,” Gandalf’s voice was tense as they passed through the broken city gate of Ost-in-Edhil. The old wizard walked in a slow stride, leaning heavily on his staff. When they all had passed through the gate and stood on the other side of the heavy stone arch he turned around and his face became sad. “It is as I feared,” he said and suddenly his voice sounded very tired.

 

Turning around Boromir saw the gate was still there but everything beyond it was blurred, like he was seeing it through a veil of water, or at a far distance. When he made a step towards the gate, he felt like barrier in the air that hindered him to leave. “What is this?” he snapped, pushing against the invisible wall.

 

Elrohir too had walked a step back, only raising his hand against the barrier. “A ward – maybe the reason why servants of the Enemy will not enter the city, it keeps them out as much as it hinders us leaving.” He said softly, his elven senses picking up things that remained invisible to the others.

 

“More than just that Elrohir,” Gandalf told him. “this is far more powerful than any ward there should be in this world. It is stifling…”

 

“So we are trapped here?” Frodo stood beside the pony, holding the reins. “We cannot leave the city anymore? There… there must be a way out.”

 

“There is, Frodo,” Elrohir told him, turning his back to the gate. “or I would not have suggested it in the first place. Those few who dared to enter this city and returned said that a path runs from the Western gate through the heart of the city that will allow the wanderer to exit on the other side, provided he can reach the East Gate.”

 

Aragorn nodded towards the elf. “I know that story too – and I have reason to believe it true. Let us not tarry too long. The sooner we begin, the sooner we will be out of this light-forsaken place again.”

 

Boromir noticed that Gandalf said little to all this, though he looked exhausted. None of them were particularly fresh, not after the night’s fighting and running. “Kíli, let’s take rear, we must not lose anyone.”

 

The first light of the sun graced the fallen city as they set out to cross the ruins. ‘Ruins’ was maybe the last word to describe this place, or so Boromir thought as they followed the street leading away from the city gate. The first thing he had noticed about the gate and the wall was that the fortifications were minimal. Sure there was a wall with a gate, but there was neither a gauntlet nor a second wall behind the gate to secure it; there were no guard towers either. The city began right behind the gate with a regular stone street and houses on either side. While the buildings were partially fallen in ruin, much was still standing, arches, balconies, broken stairs and graceful walls formed a scene still that defied the words broken and abandoned.

 

The city was not dead either – grass grew between the white flagstones of the streets and the dry vines of plants enveloped many of the shattered pillars. Even now in the depth of winter there was an echo of what the city must look like in spring, a touch of grace and beauty that not even the Shadow had been able to drive from this land.

 

He felt a hand on his arm, Kíli had noticed his moment of inattention and stopped him because the others had stopped on a crossroads, the first of its kind. Another road crossed the one they were on, giving them unneeded choices where to go. As he stood still Boromir heard a sound, a shrill, high pitched tone that echoed from their right. He could not tell what caused this tone, it was not the wind and it was too high for a flute or whistle. Suddenly he heard a deeper tone, like a hum sound from ahead of them.

 

“That is it,” Aelin spoke up. “the deep tone is our guide, as long as you can hear it you are on the right path. Whenever you hear the shriller sounds you are in danger of losing your way.”

 

Boromir saw Kíli’s eyes widen slightly. “An elven maze – this city must have been built as one. Them and their burned shadow-plays! Only they could think up a maze that needs to be navigated by ear.”

 

They moved on, following the street ahead deeper into the city, after a while the buildings moved back and the street widened, making room for plazas and sprawling alleys. For all that Boromir looked for it, he could not see  any direct signs of destruction – no traces of catapults having smashed walls, no sign of fire having collapsed buildings and no damage that would hint at a storming Orc legion, the city looked almost like it had crumbled on itself, slowly falling into ruin without any external influence. In a dark and twisted way it reminded of Minas Morgul, only that in the dread city the traces of the Orcs, the willful destruction did mitigate the crumbling influence of its ghostly rulers. There were no bones either, no remains of armors and weapons – like no one had died here or someone had come to clear the dead away after it was over.

 

He had only just thought to ask the others how this city had fallen when he heard the lament – a single beautiful voice rising into a tearful dirge, spiraling above the sweeping plaza before them. Boromir could not understand the elven words, but the sad beauty of the song cut into his heart. Looking ahead he saw the pale, almost immaterial form of an elf woman walk across the place, tears streaming from her eyes and her hands raised like to reach for someone they could not see. A desperate glance fell upon them and she reached out, like calling for help. Forgetting all care Boromir walked past the other to approach her, this city might be dangerous, but if there was someone in need of help, they’d have to risk it.

 

A steely grip on his left shoulder stopped him. “Do not approach her,” Elrohir’s voice was firm, but not unfriendly. “you cannot reach her.”

 

Looking at the elven warrior standing beside him Boromir had to exercise control to not push him off. “If she needs help…” he insisted, seeing her hands still outstretched towards them like she hoped for their aid. She must have been a beautiful elf maiden once – now her pale form echoed a sadness that would reduce even a hard man to tears.

 

“There is no help you can give her, Boromir.” Elrohir’s eyes went to the ghostly appearance, who now turned from them and walked down the street still singing her dirge. “there is no help we can bring. Mandos have mercy on her.” There was a grave acceptance in the warrior’s voice and had it not been paired with a deep compassion, Boromir might have called it cold.

 

“Who is she?” Boromir could still hear the song echo out through the empty city. In the silence of the forlorn streets, with the long left buildings, in this city so lost, the dirge became a heart wrenching plea for something he could not understand nor name. “What… what is she singing of?”

 

“It is a lament, a mourning song,” Aelin replied, he had come to stand by Elrohir’s side, whether to support him or to look after the vanishing pale figure in the street as she walked away. “she sings of the fall of the city…”

 

Night falls heavy before the walls,

Darkness walks inside the halls,

From the storm the shadow calls,

Oh Light, where are you?

 

Beyond the night a mourning star,

Calling us home from leagues afar,

But we are trapped, tied to war,

Oh Light, where are you?

 

I call your name to the waning moon,

I search your voice in the storm's tune,

I wait in the dark, you must come soon,

Oh Light, where are you?

 

Under the Shadow dies the sun,

Under the Storm all life is gone,

The walls breached, the battle done,

Oh Light, where are you?

 

In Shadow and doubt we do now dwell,

Under the Moon’s sleep were we fell,

Pass on, don't stay, farewell, farewell...

Oh Light, where are you?

****

“Is she… a ghost?” Boromir could not help but ask the question, the words that Aelin had translated for them were so sad, so longing, it made him wonder. He had never believed the tales of the elven ghosts said to haunt the dead marshes, but here with the last of the eerie song echoing after them, he was not so sure any more.

 

“She is a Fea,” Elrohir said in a pressed voice. “she must not have fled the city when the survivors abandoned Ost-in-Edhil, who knows for whom she waited?”

 

“So she died and her soul lingered?” Boromir tried to make sense of what Elrohir said without being disrespectful.

 

“Yes and no,” Elrohir shook his head and there was a sad expression in his eyes. “she must have become trapped here, exposed to the darkness haunting this city. Elves, Boromir, can only abide the taint of the Shadow for so long, the mar placed on Arda is antagonistic to our very existence. Exposed too long our bodies begin to wane – until nothing but our Fea remains, most Elves will cross the sundering seas before it can progress so far, but some who lingered eventually became like her, a Fea without form.”

 

“How great is the danger for you and Aelin?” Boromir’s mind went from the metaphysical considerations and the distant sadness back to practical problems. If this was what the elves faced when opposing the Shadow he began to understand why they had retreated so far.

 

“None that is immediate, the fading of any elf follows laws we cannot begin to understand. For some it comes swiftly and within a few short centuries and others last millennia without showing any signs of it. Mandos alone knows why.” Elrohir released his grip on Boromir’s shoulder. “Do not fear, neither of us will fade anytime soon.”

 

“Do not be so sure,” Gandalf spoke up, he had sat down on a broken pillar, leaning on his staff, hands shaking. “there is a great darkness at work here, a darkness so deep and powerful like none I have felt in many long years. It is so strong, it stifles my powers, my very existence. What kind of damage it may wreak on you I cannot tell.”

 

Aragorn hurried to Gandalf, squatting down beside the sitting wizard. “You are exhausted,” he said, his voice gentle, the healer speaking. “and this place drains you further. Will rest be of any help or do we need to hurry?”

 

“Rest… I need to rest, but where is safety enough in this city?” Gandalf’s words were barely above hush.

 

Aragorn rose, turning to the group.  “Kíli, Anvari, take point – find a halfway stable building for us, one with no hidden doors or trapdoors if you can make it. Elrohir, assist Mithrandir, Aelin – you are with Frodo.”

 

It was the first time Boromir saw Aragorn take the lead so decisively, usually the Ranger led through less obvious means. Not that Boromir intended to debate the decision, they all were exhausted and Gandalf could not walk much further. The two dwarves went ahead, how exactly they were making their choices remained invisible to the others, though Boromir began to wonder if they somehow could sense the stone surrounding them. They walked away from the plaza and into a narrow street, Kíli stopped twice for orientation, the second time consulting with Anvari, who gazed down both sides of the road, then pointed towards their left. Following the dwarves the group soon stood in front of a more solid stone wall, part of a building that was less damaged than others.

 

Walking around the corner of the building something akin to an ancient yard opened to them and Boromir could see the door to the building itself, still sitting in the weathered stone frame. He looked back to make sure the others were with them before approaching it. The door gave in the moment he touched it, the wood pieces cluttering down on the stone floor behind. A window in the opposite wall allowed the dim noonday light to filter into the room. The door itself was near left wall that separated a kind of workshop from the house. The wall stretched five steps to the right and eight steps insight. A hearth was set by the left wall, back to back with the hearth on the other side of the wall if the thick chimney shaft was any indication. Pieces of wood and other clutter littered an evenly set stone floor. Twisting his head to peer up Boromir could see the support structure of the roof was not entirely broken yet but crumbling severely. Some of the roof beams had yet to collapse.

 

Boromir had pushed the cluttered wood out of the left back corner of the room, so Aragorn and Elrohir could help Gandalf to sit down in a place shielded from the cold wind outside. The floor beneath the clutter and dirt was indeed stone, very evenly set floor tiles, there appeared to be no cracks or gaps.

 

Squatting down Kíli took a closer look. It was the same granite that could be found everywhere in the misty mountains, and it was not polished to shine. But on a closer look he could see the minuscule rifts between the different stone plates the floor was made of. They were so tiny and the plates fitting so well that it was hardly visible when standing. Some good and solid craftsmanship had gone into this floor, but he was not sure if any elf would have chosen so simple an adornment for his house. Or had this been a workshop?

 

Boromir took the last pieces of wood and stacked them up beside the hearth. The wood was bone dry and splintered. Still, it would make a good fire. On that thought he cleaned up the hearth from the self-same cluttered wood pieces. The hearth was not made of the grey granite, but of red and white river stones, that had been artfully set and walled. There had long been no fire inside the hearth, not even a trace of ash was left. But when Boromir moved his hand up to inspect the inside, he felt a cool breeze of air. The chimney above must still be intact.

 

Kíli had taken some of the wood stacking it into the fireplace, only moments later the flames were blazing brightly, shedding a welcome warmth into the room. Still standing beside the chimney Boromir welcomed the warmth of the flames after the long march in the cold weather. Frodo and Sam came closer and settled down close by the fire, snuggling into their cloaks. He watched as Aragorn stood from where her had been aiding Gandalf to exchange a few brisk words with Elrohir, his mien worried as he motioned the elf towards the wizard, before joining him by the fire as the elf joined the resting old man. “How is he?” Boromir asked, his eyes pointing to Gandalf.

 

“I have never seen anything like it,” Aragorn told him. “I have never seen him so tired, so exhausted. Like something is sapping at his strength. It is also affecting Elrohir and Aelin, though to a lesser extent and they are stubborn enough not to show it. I hope the rest will help them a little. But –“

 

“But we might want to split guard duty between the four of us,” Boromir could guess Aragorns thoughts a quick glance indicating them and the two dwarves. “as we are the least affected.”

 

They settled down, the Hobbits the first to fall asleep, Gandalf too slept, the two elves were seated quietly, whether they slept or were awake he could not discern. Kíli had sat down with his back to the wall, knees drawn in and arms resting on them, the sword ready beside him. “Do we need to hunt for more firewood?” Boromir asked him softly. “The warmth will be good for the others.” He remembered how long the fire on the pass had lasted, though he was not sure how it been possible.

 

“It is dwarven fire, Boromir, it will not burn out as long as either Anvari or I are close by.” Kíli said softly, though there was a slight impatience in his voice. He leaned his head back against the rough stone. “Grab some sleep, I will wake you when I get too tired.”

 

Boromir sat down opposite of him, in much the same way; it was his usual resting seat, ready to fight but able to sleep. “You were not shocked when we were trapped in this city,” he observed, not yet quite calm enough to sleep.

 

Kíli shrugged. “My people have a legend about this city. They say that in the fallen ruins of Ost-in-Edhil dwells a powerful curse that can be passed through but not broken, and they also say that deep under the city is an ancient forge, a spellforge like there are few left in the world. Where an ancient arcane smith is chained to the anvil, held by a chain that could only be cut by a blade that will cut steel and stone. Legend has it that he is one of the greatest in the craft, and that those daring enough to enter the city and find him must pass his trials. And if they survive his trials, he will have them as an apprentice for seven years and teach them the seven secrets of power.”

 

Aragorn chuckled. “Should I be surprised that your people have a legend about crafters and this place, Kíli?” he asked, slightly amused. “I have no doubt some of your people would risk it for the sake of the craft.”

 

“I knew one who did,” Kíli answered. “and who returned. What I know of this city is from the few stories he would tell, though he was blind at the time, so he could not describe the city in any detail.” He shrugged. “I started pestering him for details when I still was thinking of going myself but…”

 

Boromir could well imagine Kíli consider such an apprenticeship, in the short time he knew the dwarf he had already learned that the dwarf was one to take risks, and that he loved his craft was beyond doubt. “What happened?” he asked, wondering what might have dissuaded Kíli.

 

The dwarf cast him a strange glance. “Something happened… and then Oin read the portents and announced the time was right – if the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end. And after the quest… things had changed too much.”

 

Silence fell and Boromir allowed himself to drift into a light sleep, it was easier than expected, he had begun to feel safe enough with Kíli’s watchful presence to truly fall sleep, though the story the dwarf had told him followed him into his dreams.

 

_He was walking down a long flight of stairs, the stone walls beside him were dark and polished, the light of the single lamp he carried reflecting in the shining surface until it looked like there were dozens of dim lights following him. He knew that effect and he loved it, reminding him of some old song about lanterns burning in the darkness. From the end of the tunnel he could see a cool blue light shining and heard the echoes of a hammer ringing. He smiled, he had of course known where to look, he could feel where to go, but he would have known without that. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stood in the doorway, the forge was alight with the cold blue fire burning brightly and he saw a familiar figure work at the anvil, the hammer coming down on the axeblade in a steady, powerful rhythm. In moments like this he could almost feel the power crackling in the air, and sometimes he thought he could almost see the patterns as they flowed into the steel to be hammered into the weapon. Only for the tiniest moment did the blacksmith interrupt his work and peer over his shoulder, dark eyes sparkling bemusedly at Boromir as he gestured him to come inside…_

“When did you see him last?” Kíli’s voice brought Boromir out of his dream and back into the waking world, going from sleep to full alert within moments. He opened his eyes and saw Frodo squatted down beside Kíli.

 

“He only went for a call of nature, Kíli,” the Hobbit said. “and… now I am worried, he did not come back. Uncle Bilbo always said that call of nature…”

 

“… end with being cooked in sage. Not this time, I should hope,” Kíli rose to his feet and grabbed his sword. “Wake Strider and tell him I am going to look for Sam, I am sure he is not far, probably took the wrong turn and is looking for the way back.”

 

“You better not plan on going alone,” Boromir said, rising as well. “none of us should be about on his own. Why did Sam go out alone?” In a place such as this no one should leave the group, for any reason.

 

“Sam is a Hobbit, Boromir,” Kíli said, slightly defensive. “and they are… they would not go for a leak when someone else was with them. It’s not proper and not done. Bilbo was the same the first few weeks into the quest, until we wrecked his impeccable manners.”

 

Their voices had woken Aragorn as well and he conversed shortly with Elrohir. “We three go looking, the elves take watch,” he told them. “I agree with Kíli, Sam cannot be far.”

 

They walked out into the courtyard again, the sun was setting again and the buildings cast long shadows across the yard and the streets. The wind had turned and now blew coldly from the North, thick snowflakes dancing in the gale. The loud clutter of stone along with the suppressed curse of a familiar voice made them look to the side. In the corner of the yard the ground had collapsed, leaving a hole in the pavement. Carefully Boromir approached the sinking site, with each step that he got closer he felt the ground slightly shaky, but not entirely unstable, under his feet. When he reached the rim of the hole he saw the floor had broken to a lower level more than seven foot under him. Sam was standing at the bottom of the hole, having slipped in a frustrated attempt to climb the walls, he looked up to him.

 

“Careful, Mr. Boromir, this entire yard is so crumbly like Clayhanger’s old smial, if you get my meaning.” He said out loud, raising his hand to indicate the walls surrounding him.

 

“Are you injured, Sam?” Boromir asked, squatting down by the rim of the sinkhole. He heard a soft rustle and saw a rope pushed to him. Kíli must have read his mind. Taking the end of the rope, peering over the rim to see where it would be easiest to lift Sam up. A loud crack alarming him only seconds before the ground gave in under him, he was tossed forward and tumbled down into the hole, accompanied by a lot of debris, a stone hitting his temple. He drew in his legs and managed to land in a crouched position, outside the main debris slide.

 

“I am fine, but you seem a bit shaken, beggin’ your pardon.” Sam had hurried towards him. “We won’t get out of using that stinkin’ tunnel over there, I wager.”

 

Boromir’s eyes followed Sam’s gesture and he saw a tunnel mouth opening to their right, like part of an old cellar going deeper under the buildings. “Maybe,” he rose, to inspect the walls around them. They were standing in the remains of an old cellar of sorts, the walls were composed of light stone materials, and he could glimpse another still standing cellar room under the courtyard, access to said room was blocked by the collapsed rubble. Kíli’s head appeared above the rim, the dwarf must be lying flat on the ground, for only his head was visible. “Careful, I doubt this yard is stable,” Boromir warned him.

 

“I should be right above a standing wall,” Kíli shrugged. “we’ll have to find a way to get you out of this hole. If more collapses you both will be buried.”

 

“Where is Aragorn?” Boromir asked, having a vague idea what they might be able to do. “and is there any stable ground around?” he trusted Kíli to have the right sense for that. The spot he had chosen, right above the cellar wall, not above the former ceiling proved as much.

 

“I am here and I think this end is fairly stable,” Aragorn stood at the far end of the yard, his back to the wall of the courtyard and looked down to Boromir. “But I doubt it will be enough to support a rope and climbing out.”

 

“Then we leave that for now.” Boromir said. “can you take another step back, on the firmest ground you can find?” He knew that the ground by the wall should be a bit more stable or the entire wall would have collapsed a long time ago.

 

Aragorn took the step back until he made impact with the wall. “I do not see what this is going to help us. You cannot jump that high, Boromir.”

 

“No, all you have to do is catch Sam,” Boromir replied, stepping closer to Sam, his eyes surveying the narrow grounds before him for the best spot to step onto.

 

The stout Hobbit raised both hands in a defensive gesture, eyes wide in panic. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Boromir… Hobbits were not meant to fly…”

 

“And they were not meant to be buried under stone either,” Boromir grabbed Sam by his clothes at the neck and belt, taking a step back, getting all the momentum he could get as he raced forward two steps and then threw Sam at Aragorn. The Hobbit screamed frightened but only a moment later was safely caught by the Ranger, who set him down gently and approached the rim carefully again. The stones creaked ominously.

 

“That was good thinking, Boromir, but what about you? Even if you can jump to the rim of the hole, the stones will break. These walls are all eroded. Kíli? Do you see any way to help him up?”

 

The dwarf’s hands were firmly planted on the flagstones of the yard. “No, Aragorn, the entire grounds around the hole are ready to collapse. You better get away from where you are and back to the front yard – or you might land in that hole again.”

 

Boromir was not surprised to hear that, if he looked at the collapsed stones and tired walls upholding old cellars he was astonished that they had not collapsed a long time ago. The tunnel leading deeper and out under the wall seemed the most stable. Probably because it led away from the eroded spot. “There is a tunnel down here, Kíli, it looks like a kind of cellar. It must come up somewhere again. I will have to find another way up. Can you make one of those broken beams burn? I’d prefer to have a torch when venturing in age old cellars.” He had noticed that sometimes Kíli just seemed to look at a log and it started to burn and it would really come in handy at this moment.

 

“Boromir, you do not know how long you will have to search for another way up,” Aragorn said, shaking his head. “you could get lost and search for days without finding a way out. The cellars will be a worse labyrinth than the streets.”

 

“What other choice do I have?” Boromir asked, shrugging slightly. “I cannot climb these walls and I doubt Gandalf could conjure me up – so I have to do this the old fashioned way and search for another exit.” He did not like the idea, the city was an eerie place, but he was not afraid either. If these were cellars some of the neighboring houses must have access to them as well. And… no matter what, the mission could not be held up by this; he’d catch up to the others once he had found an exit.

 

“But you are not going alone,” Kíli stated. “you were right that none of us should wander about alone, especially not in the deeps under this city.”

 

While Boromir was touched that Kíli would come after him regardless of his own safety, he shook his head. “No, Kíli, the mission cannot lose another fighter to this. I’ll find my way out and catch up with you as fast as I can –“

 

“You are not going alone,” Aragorn spoke with a firm voice now. “and we will not leave anyone behind. Kíli, can you get down to Boromir without making the entire yard collapse?”

 

“Aye,” Kíli grabbed the stones right above the still standing wall and swung himself down, hanging by them only for a fleeting moment before he jumped and landed beside Boromir, a bit of rubble rustled down the sides of the hole but there was no new avalanche.

 

Boromir cast a glare up the Aragorn, while he accepted Aragorn’s leadership on the quest, this was a stupid decision. “The mission is more important than any one man, Thorongil.” He reminded him, sharing part of the glare with Kíli, who looked entirely too happy with the situation.

 

“And if we become like the Enemy to achieve it, what have we won?” Kíli asked him, meeting his gaze evenly. “We do not sacrifice comrades when we have other choices and we do not leave friends in sinkholes when we can help it.”

 

Looking from Aragorn up at the rim to Kíli standing beside him, Boromir felt a warmth rise inside him, they might be the most annoying comrades at times, with an exasperating tendency to risk themselves but… they were friends and he was glad they were with him. Seeing Aragron retreat from the rim, he picked up some of the broken pieces of wood, handing one to Kíli who lit them both, and with the torches blazing against the impending night, the two comrades entered the tunnel under the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. Sorry for the confusing sentences! I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	7. What a chain means

The light of the torches illuminated the narrow tunnel before them, casting flickering shadows along the walls that wandered with them as they followed the tunnel, Boromir’s sense of direction was enough to tell him that they were headed away from the yard, under the wall and then across the street they had seen earlier. “Why would someone interlink cellars like this?” he wondered, Minas Tirith had its own sprawling Undercity, but said part of the city had been built as a regular part of the White City and only fallen into disuse in later centuries.

 

“Why in the world not?” Kíli answered with a question as he ducked under half cracked stone gateway and jumped down a stair into another tunnel. “These were crafters’ quarters, creating interlinked cellars would allow to move heavy goods, wares and materials without clogging up the streets, allows workshops to send people back and forth as necessary when working together and makes for another layer of defense – not that this is an underground fortress by any stretch of imagination, but it could still be used to trap enemies in times of need.”

 

They stood in a wider tunnel now, and Kíli had squatted down to peer up a narrow stairwell that might lead up to a building. “It’s collapsed, like the one over there,” he pointed in the other direction. “we’ll have to find another way up again.”

 

“If the quarter is in a similar shape as the building we were in, I’d not be surprised that many ways down have collapsed,” Boromir observed as they walked on. His words proved true all too soon when they found their path blocked by another cave in – rubble piling up high in the tunnel, blocking it entirely. They had to turn around and go the other direction, where they encountered a similar problem after a few hundred paces, turning back anew they took a side tunnel, squeezing past a partial cave in to reach another broader tunnel. With them being forced to change direction every so often Boromir wondered how they should be supposed to keep any sense of where they were. He had made himself recount ever turn, ever decision they made, but he felt more and more like they were walking through a partially ruined labyrinth.

 

Eventually they came out of a low ceilinged tunnel and stood before a long stairwell leading into the deep. Kíli reached for the wall with his hand, like to steady himself. “And now we have to make a choice, Boromir – go back and try one of the other side-tunnels, hoping they will lead back to the surface, or go deeper and try to find a way up from somewhere else.”

 

“Last night you spoke of someone who came here before,” Boromir raised his torch to see more in the long stairwell before them – it did not look elven at all, a heavy, rectangular shaft with broad stone stairs running along it into the deep. There was a sharp contrast between the tunnels they had walked so far, which had still been graceful with vaulted ceilings and arched doorways, and this much plainer, rock-solid architecture. “did he tell you anything on how to navigate these deeps?”

 

“Narvi was blind, Boromir, he followed his ears, his stone sense and an intuition I cannot even begin to explain. Though he mentioned once that it took him a few days to find a way to enter the underground structures of the city.”

 

“Meaning that there are few points where these tunnels still lead to the surface,” Boromir looked back the tunnel from whence they had come. They could wander between the cave-ins for who knew how long, until thirst and hunger overwhelmed them maybe, though that was luckily still a long time away. “let us try the deeps, Kíli, I doubt we are going to find anything up here.”

 

They began their climb down the long flight of stairs, the air became warmer the deeper they came. Boromir had expected there would be doors or tunnels entering the stairwell at some point, but there were none, the long dark shaft seemed solely designed for descending to a certain depth. “Can this be an older part of the city?” he raised his torch. “Look at these stones, they are rough, set differently – the entire stairs are nothing like the tunnels above.”

 

“I don’t know,” Kíli replied. “the elves of Eregion were friends with the dwarves of Khazad-Dum, creating many great works together – how the friendship began nobody quite knows, but many say it began with Celebrimbor and Durin III. Maybe the dwarves helped build some of this city, maybe this was already in existence or build in a hurry, following necessity over beauty. Bilbo did a lot of research into Durin III and his friendship with the crafters of Eregion – though many of the key writings are lost to us now as only parts of the Moria library survived or could be salvaged.”

 

There was a wealth of history in that short answer, the story of two ages, of so many things long lost and forgotten and yet, Boromir felt like it was familiar to him, like a part of him knew of these things. When in the world had he only half-listened when Faramir had recounted some book he had read? They reached the end of the stairwell and came to stand in a rectangular place with two doors leading into opposing directions. With a hiss Boromir’s torch burned out and he dropped the remains to the ground. Blinking into the darkness he frowned. “Kíli – there is a light in that tunnel,” he pointed to their left, where a small spark reflected restlessly in the dark of the hallway.

 

Kíli had put his burned out torch down as well. “You are right, looks like a fire.” He whispered, tensing. Neither of them needed to mention that it meant they were not alone down here. Ducking slightly Kíli gestured Boromir to follow him as he headed into the tunnel from whence the light shone.

 

Boromir followed only a moment later, keeping close to the wall of the tunnel that they were following. He could see the dwarf’s smaller figure move like a shadow ahead of him, with the absolute confidence of a being at home in the deeps and under tons of stone. Peering ahead he saw the light become brighter, flickering here and there, and after a while he could see contours in the tunnel once more. Straining his ears he tried to pick up anything, any indication of danger, of someone encroaching on them. But there was nothing, except his own steps, echoing Kíli’s step and his own heartbeat racing in his ears.

 

The light grew brighter and they walked through a proper stone arch to stand on the top of a small flight of stairs leading down into something Boromir would have called a strange workshop. There were two fireplaces – only instead of being ringed by stone they were ringed by the large shards of crystals, encasing a blue and silver flame blazing brightly. There were smelters at the back of the room and a sand pit off to the left in an adjacent workshop. At the heart of the room sat an anvil – anchored on a massive piece of rock it gleamed darkly, like the surface had been polished, or was the anvil itself made of black steel? There was a sense of the strength about this place, as well as a horrible shadow, a fear that would have warned Boromir to retreat at once had he not seen Kíli’s expression. The dwarf had raised one hand to cover his mouth, eyes wide in awe, like he could not believe what he was seeing.

 

“Kíli?” Boromir asked softly, forgetting about the shadow on the place for a moment, he had stood in the very shadow of Minas Morgul and not cowered in fear, he would not run from a sheer presence here. “What is this place?”

 

The dwarf slowly let his hand sink, and looked up to him. “Look around you, Boromir, and enter with care – you will most likely not see a place such as this a second time in your life – for most of the great spellforges have long fallen or were destroyed. This… this is a place where the great crafts of an Elder Age were worked.”

 

So this was what Kíli had meant by a spellforge when he had spoken of the legend his people told of this place, it was nothing to put Boromir at ease, even as he could see no trace of a smith or inhabitant present. “There is a shadow here, Kíli – darker and deeper than almost anything I have felt in my life. There is danger here.”

 

He could see that Kíli did not dismiss his words, for the dwarf nodded and earnest expression in his mien. “Aye, it is, this forge is steeped in shadow, in a presence…” He drew a long slow breath. “It… it would have to be… the reason why no Nazgûl will dare enter the city.”

 

Boromir frowned. “Should the Shadow not draw them closer instead of keeping them away?” he had never seen the Nazgûl shy away from anything, save a burning torch and for that they had their minions to do what they could not.

 

“No, it is not the presence,” Kíli’s eyes shone in a fierce fire now. “Boromir – this… this must be the place where they were made. The very forge where the three, the seven and the nine were made, where the doom of an entire world was crafted… and the Nazgûl would have to fear this place for if in this flame their rings were made-“

 

“Are you saying that they could be unmade here?” Boromir asked in a hush. He had heard the whispered stories of the second age, of the place where Sauron himself had worked… but he had always imagined it like the fiery mountain, a foreboding crack of lava, not such a forge.

 

“Aye, it must be why the fear this place – they must sense that it holds their end encased.” His eyes strayed to the anvil, the workbenches and the flames blazing brightly. “Did he know?” he asked softly, his words directed at the empty room, maybe to the past itself. “did he know what kind of doom he was forging? What curse rested in the seven? What doom in the Nine? Or did he believe in his work to the last?” Closing his eyes Kíli bowed his head and for a moment Boromir could almost feel a heavy sadness rolling off him like in waves, then the dwarf looked up, steadily again. “Let us look around – it is unlikely, but we might find something here, knowledge maybe that can aid our journey.”

 

Amazed and worried Boromir studied the dwarf standing beside him, there was a fierce will in his eyes combined with something else that worried Boromir. “Kíli,” he stepped closer, meeting the dwarf’s eyes evenly. “listen to me – I agree that we might learn something of use here, but… you are entirely too fascinated with this place. This… this is the place where the Nine Rings were made – where our world was doomed to fight a war that has swallowed up more than an age. Evil was wrought here; great evil and I shudder to think what we might unearth.”

 

“The Seven were made here too – and believe me, I know some of the Evil they wrought, Boromir, for my ancestors held the First of the Seven and there was a price to pay.” Kíli said, his voice deepening to a fierce grumble. “But I am an arcane crafter, Boromir, and understanding what went wrong can aid us greatly in the future. Who knows what kind of weapons we will need to win this war, or beat the Eastern Empire? You of all people should understand that.”

 

When Boromir looked at Kíli he suddenly did not see his travelling companion, the warrior he had met at the passes, not even the arcane smith he had caught a glimpse at during the re-forging of Narsil, but someone else entirely – the dwarven Prince hidden beneath the steel veil of the warrior, the leader – and the powerful crafter. The dream of the night came back to him, only this time he saw Kíli standing at that anvil working on weapons – great, powerful weapons, weapons that were not meant for mortal hands, blades of true power becoming as fierce, as horrible as had been the artifacts of the past… and when he saw Kíli look up from that anvil he met, hard black eyes, shining like black diamonds, unfeeling and consumed by their own flame. An iron band clamped around his heart, for he knew this was no dream – it was a vision, if he ever had a waking vision, this was a true one, a warning of a great and terrible potential that rested in his otherwise unassuming comrade.

 

The vision faded and he again saw Kíli as he was now – the warrior, the comrade who would not leave someone behind and he knew the path would be decided here and now. “Kíli – not long ago you asked me what we won if we became like the enemy. If we create weapons like he does, what difference does it make for us, for the world? We are fighting to rid the world of evil, not to recreate it. And the price – the price for such power is too great. Can’t you see that?” The last words came out a bit more forcefully, he had to make Kíli listen, make him break the spell that this place had woven upon him, he reached for Kíli’s shoulder, hoping the touch might break through to his friend.

 

But Kíli broke free form the touch with one fluid move. “Don’t you think I know that?” the dwarf spat, anger shining in his eyes. “Blasted fires Boromir, you _died_ to protect me from the Bane of the Seven, you _died_ … and I will be condemned to the void if I let that happen again.” Kíli’s voice almost broke and he took a stumbling step backwards, his eyes wide in shock as he realized what he had just said.

 

Speechless Boromir looked at Kíli, unable to bring to process what the dwarf just had said. “I am very much alive, Kíli…” he knew that these words were not particularly helpful – but what kind of death did Kíli want to protect him from?

 

Exhausted Kíli turned away, leaning against the cold stonewall, like seeking support in the cold rocks. “Shouldn’t have said that,” he whispered. “it’s hard not to… should have not said a word.” His shoulders were quivering, like he was trying to regain his composure somehow.

 

Boromir slowly approached him, he did not know what was raging inside his companion, but it had a more powerful hold on him than even the darkness in this forge. Again did he place a supporting hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you should tell me?” he suggested, if the raw emotions in the words were any indication it was something that was haunting Kíli – and if it made him think less of the ancient powers of this forge, the better.

 

“How?” Kíli’s voice was rough, like he was struggling to keep his emotions under control. “How, Boromir? How could…” he suddenly tensed and came about facing him directly. “How can I tell you how we met, how we became friends… and how you died for me and how I have known for four decades now that you were reborn?” He raised his shaking hands, pressing them against his temples, head bowed, the long dark mane obscuring his features.

 

Boromir felt the pain from Kili like a surge, an echo of something he should not feel but that was there, it felt familiar all the same, like the comforting presence during the dark hours in Minas Morgul, like that moment in the forge of Rivendell not all that long ago. Wordlessly he guided Kíli to sit down on the stairs, sitting down beside him. “Maybe start at the beginning?” he suggested. “How we met and when…” A part of him was afraid like he had never been before, a small voice whispering that if he did not retreat swiftly he would lose his life, nothing would ever be like it had been – he would change. But Boromir locked those doubts away, his focus on the friend sitting beside him.

 

Kíli sighed, leaning his arms on his knees, his stance relaxing only a little. “It was nearly eighty years ago – Autumn 2940 of the Third Age by Menfolk reckoning, when my brother and I were on the way to Coldrocks crossing and got into the middle of an autumn raid by Orcs. We helped the villagers to scramble to the ruins of old Annúminas while we fought the Orcs. In the middle of the battle a warrior joined us, helping us to drive off the Orcs. I had overlooked an archer and he moved in between me and the Orc, today I think he tried to deflect the arrow and missed the angle, for the arrow went straight into his arm.” Kíli looked to the side, to Boromir. “It was you – a little older maybe, but more ageless, like your people get when their lifespan begins to stretch… but it was you, same face, same voice… and same name. You to every detail that I can name, even to the habit of trying to protect me.” He reached down and began to unbuckle his bracer. “When I reached for his hand to treat the arrow-wound, a bright band enveloped our arms and this appeared…” Kíli bared his swordarm and again Boromir saw the shining dragon on it. The eerie bright form was framed by flame, much as his empty form had a frame of fire ever since Minas Morgul, all in him wanted to ask about what happened there, but he held back, wanting to know what had happened after.

 

“What happened?” he asked. “You did not know me, did you?” It was the strangest thing to hear, something that sounded like a dream, a tale of madness, but Boromir knew enough Numenorán legends to not dismiss such stories just because they sounded like something only a drunken dream could produce.

 

“No, I did not.” Kíli shook his head. “And when I regained consciousness I was worried, for this is an oathmark – and while legend attributes it to some of the great dwarves of the past Durin II and Alberic Stonebow amongst them, I hardly felt like a legend. Back then I was so worried, I did not notice it…”

 

“Notice what?” It was not hard for Boromir to see that Kíli’s mind was on the past, walking again through events that had shaped his live long ago. How deeply had he been affected by all that had happened?

 

“That it was all too easy, you accepted the facts about the mark easily, took the whole thing in a stride, you even understood our language.” He shook his head. “I was young then, young and stupid, I did not ask the questions I should have my worries on all kinds of things but not on the things I should have paid attention to. When Óin saw the mark on my arm, he proclaimed it to be the dragonbane seal and me being fated to slay Smaug… so we joined the Quest to Erebor. I… I should have seen then, Boromir, you simply came with us on a fourteen man mission to destroy a dragon without any question. I should have paid attention, but…”

 

“Being proclaimed fated to kill a dragon would have distracted anyone,” Boromir pointed out, fascinated by the story and pushed back all the same. He could feel that Kíli spoke the truth, beyond the shadow of a doubt, but what strange fate had sent him there? Where was Faramir when he was needed? He would unravel this mystery swiftly… but without him, Boromir would have to work it out on his own, find the answers  or maybe he should start by beginning to find the questions that fit the answers he already knew.

 

“Dragon or no Dragon, I simply assumed too much on our new friendship – and our friendship grew quickly, though sometimes you looked at me, like you were searching for something.” Kíli again shook his head, and Boromir could read the doubts in his mien. How young had he been? How much had he second-guessed his decisions since that day? “I will not recount all our misadventures, it would make the story too long, but when we were captured in the Misty Mountains and the Goblins….” Kíli swallowed, forcing the next words out, “branded me, a memory of yours jumped into my mind – how you climbed out of Minas Morgul.”

 

Boromir’s breath hitched in his throat, what strange fate, what kind of chains tied their lives together? How strongly were they linked? How much strength must it have taken for Kíli to aid him in the darkness under the dread city, confronting his own nightmares at the same time?

 

“Later, after we escaped we shared another memory, I think it was mine, but not mine all the same, like an echo of a much older me being in confrontation with your father.” Kíli shook his head. “That’s when you told me that we knew each other, but not from this time, not from this life. At some time, I do not know when, I must have fallen victim to the Bane, the Curse the First of the Seven left on my family and you… you had found a way to journey back to save me. To help me break free,”

 

For the first time in his life Boromir was grateful his father had insisted on instilling some of the old Numenorán knowledge into him, no matter how much he detested moldy old books. Denethor had gone as far as making Thoroniâr read the books and see how he could get Boromir to remember their contents. Now all that dusty old knowledge was helpful for a change. “A life lived backwards,” Boromir whispered, recalling the legends of the few Numenoráns who were said to have walked such a path, they were the stuff of legend, stories handed down to generations of impressionable youths… and Boromir had always loved them. Only he had never believed to find himself in the middle of one, of a legend waking from the grass of this old world and coming alive.

 

“Aye, I did not know much more – only that you’d not be born in another four decades and… I did not ask more. It was not necessary, you were there now, and that counted.” Kíli’s eyes held Boromir’s gaze and there was an intense light shining in his eyes. “Understand, Boromir, I would not have made it through that year without you, you saved me several times, you taught me more about responsibility and having to be a leader, a Prince, than I ever thought I’d need and in the end you knew of the spell – the spell that would save my brother when he was dying, which linked all three of us together in that bond. You told me only that I had used that spell originally to save your life, creating the bond in the process… and when it was all over –  you died, you gave your life to save Fíli and I…” Kíli blinked hard, trying to hide the tears in his eyes, unsuccessfully so. “you died… I could feel how you slipped away, pushing all your strength to us, so we might live… asking us not to mourn… and all I could do was try to live up to whatever you saw in me. Looking at what happened here… not much of an effort.”

 

Reaching for Kíli’s shoulders Boromir clasped them firmly. “Don’t you dare to put yourself down over this,” he said fiercely, “if I chose that path then it was my choice, none others.” He held his gaze, knowing that Kíli had referred on how their debate had begun. “We all have our weaknesses, Kíli, for one it is power, for another it is gold… yours is knowledge.”

 

“You go too easy on me, you always did,” Kíli’s face relaxed in a small, sad smile. “I… I had hoped to spare you from that fate this time, to protect you from whatever drove your actions in the first place… you deserved better than that.”

 

Slowly Boromir removed his own bracer, revealing the outline of the mark on his arm. “I was born with this, Kíli, some believed it to be an ill omen, a mark of darkness, others believed it to be a mark of destiny… but whatever it is, I doubt it would be there if not by choice. I know… I know I chose this, I wanted it to be there… in my heart I know I would not give it up when I had the choice. You cannot protect me from it.” When he looked at the flame outlined dragon Boromir remembered how Kíli had found him under Minas Morgul, somehow sharing his torment, how he had felt he was not alone in some of the hardest, darkest moments of his life. They were already friends, even when they had not known each other for some time. He raised his hand. “Friends again?”

 

“Friends,” Kìli clasped his arm in a firm grip, a genuine smile shining in his eyes. The bright flame of the dragons flared, flowing from its borders and enveloping both their arms in fiery lines, bonds of pure fire and light wrapping them together, as Boromir’s mark became all flame colored, with only an echo of the eerie light in Kìli’s, while Kìli’s dragon regained fiery wings as the mithril chain that had linked their fates for so long sprang into place again, tying them together anew.

 

Something inside Boromir broke, or maybe it just fell in place, an awareness that blossomed at the back of his mind, a presence, strong, powerful, utterly familiar and… oh so long missed. He had not known what he had been missing for so long. Suddenly he was aware of Kíli, of his presence, of his emotions and he knew that it was the same for the dwarf. He closed his eyes and let the awareness wash over him like a wave, Light above, he had a brother.

 

TRB

 

“We still need to find a way out of here,” Kíli stood atop the stairs again, eyes critically surveying the spellforge. “and I fear we will not get out of crossing this place.” His voice was calm and steady, no trace of the fascination for this place it had held before, which Boromir found reassuring.

 

With the sense he had newly gained for Kíli’s presence he was sure that the danger had passed, and he too felt less oppressed by the darkness in this room. Could it be that they protected each other? Was this the reason why their bond had sprung alive when he had been confronted with the Nazgûl in Minas Morgul? He was not sure, but it certainly felt like it. “Maybe this room holds the clue to the way out,” he agreed, while he was still aware of the danger he trusted Kíli to be careful, to not fall to the allure again.

 

Slowly they walked down into the forge and began a swift survey of the place, the flames in the crystal ensconced braziers blazed brightly, like they would never fade and Boromir noticed a hammer resting on the anvil, a hammer made of shining silvery steel, etched with runes and strange patterns that he could not understand. But when he looked at the tool he noticed something else. “Kíli, there is no dust on the anvil, nor the hammer, nor anywhere else in this room – someone must truly be here.”

 

“This forge is not abandoned,” Kíli agreed, “two of the smelters are working, if only on low flame as much as I can tell, there is no dust and the sand pit has been recently dug up. Even the water in the barrel is fresh – and unused so far.”

 

“Could the legend your people tell of this place be true?” Boromir did not want to imagine who might have been trapped here, chained to this forge, to this forsaken city. What kind of punishment was it to be captive of such a place for more than an age?

 

Kíli had squatted down on the floor beside the rock that anchored the blacksteel anvil, like he wanted to inspect the anchoring, but then Boromir heard a soft clinging noise as Kíli lifted something up in his hands, holding it up to him. “I fear you are right, Boromir, the legend might be more true than either of us would like to imagine in this moment.”

 

Looking at the dwarf’s raised hands Boromir saw a fine silvery chain, not much thicker than a finger rest in the dwarf’s hands. It began in a ring anchored in the rock under the anvil and fell to the floor from there, snaking across the simple grey door tiles of the workshop, to the far end of spellforge and through another dark archway leading somewhere they could not see. The silver line vanishing into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	8. A name long forgotten

Kíli let the chain glide through his fingers, almost as if he was able to read something off the silver chain links. Boromir could feel an echo of tension and something cold from him. “Is the chain what your legend tells?” He asked, wondering who might be held in these deeps for such a long time. Who would not have died.

 

“It is, and more. I doubt that a common blade that cuts steel and stone will be able to harm this chain.” Kíli explained, rising to his feet. “It… it is one of the most complex forms of unbreakable that I have ever seen.”

 

Boromir did not comment on that; to his mind nothing about a blade to cut steel and stone was common, but this was beside the point. “The chain follows out of the only other exit, maybe it can lead us out of this place.” It would also lead them to whoever still dwelled in under this city and Boromir did not pretend that this captive might be long dead. The forge was too clean for such an assumption. He looked around for something they could use as fresh torches, but there was nothing. Kíli extricated something from the pouch at his belt and handed it to Boromir, it was a small crystal glowing pale in the darkness. Wordlessly the dwarf headed off before him, his eyes not needing the faint light to find his way through the dark tunnel.

 

The passageway was wider than those they had followed above and Boromir was glad that the ceiling was still high enough for him to stand, though otherwise the heavy stones vaulting above them felt almost oppressive, like an endless load of rock piling up over their heads. Kíli moved swiftly before him, shoulders leaning slightly forward like a cat ready to jump, now and then his hand touched the wall beside him, in a man the gesture would have looked like supporting himself or seeking hold, with the dwarf it was different, like he was seeking contact with the stone purposefully. The tunnel ended in another door with stairs that led into a larger room or hall of sorts – Boromir could only see the stairs vanishing into darkness in the light of the crystal. Kìli’s eyes were squinted, like even his sight was strained by the room. “Another workshop,” he whispered softly. “lapidary and other stonework from what I can see – makes sense for one who includes jewels and inlaid work in his art.”

 

Albeit he had spoken barely above a hush his voice carried far into the room, like the whisper echoing from a wall somewhere in the darkness. And like it was an answer, or maybe something mingling into the echo of the room they heard a voice whisper back. “Do not… do not come closer.”

 

Kíli tilted his head, carefully taking one step forward onto the landing of the stairs. “We mean you no harm,” he said, only a little louder, but loud enough to be clearly heard. “we are not your enemies.”

 

Boromir had nearly stopped Kíli from stepping out onto the landing, he was exposing himself that way, any archer, any thrown knife could hit him there, especially with the white light illuminating him. His hand sank to pack the glowing stone away but he saw Kíli’s short shaking of the head, telling him not to – it would break any gesture of trust.

 

“Enemy, you use the word easily, though do you know what it means?” The whispering voice answered, echoing out of the darkness. “Can you name with surety who you enemy is and who is not? Whom you would name such if you could?”

 

“Or is the enemy not just the mirror image of my own fears projected into what I hate, so I might not look it without anger?” Kíli’s replied, his voice calm and steady, and Boromir wondered if trading cryptic barbs in the darkness was some secret way of dwarven philosophy. He saw Kíli taking two slow steps down the stairs, towards the floor of the workshop. “No, my friend, the Enemy is but a Shadow of your own mind. To understand the nature of war, you must learn to define whom _you_ are enemy to instead of being defined by who calls you enemy in turn.”

 

Kíli stopped three stairs down. “And when I say you are not my enemy, I mean it.” Boromir had followed him out, raising the crystal higher so he could see at least a little.

 

A strange sound, like a strangled laugh echoed through the hall. “You always would know how to twist my words around, Thoraine, so strange to see that in a dwarf.” The laughter died into a whisper. “It’s been so long…”

 

Spanning the muscles of his right arm Boromir let the throwing knife under his bracer slip into his hand, that voice did not sound very sane. And had he just called Kíli by a different name? Thorin?

 

Kíli though was unfazed by this, he walked down the stairs entirely, following his ears to where he had heard the voice. “Long since what?” he asked, as he walked he kept his hands slightly raised in front of himself, showing he was unarmed. “And as you have a name for me – would you tell me what to call you?”

 

“A long long time… since you were last here, Thoraine. You said it would be long, but that you’d return and you did return. You cannot help it, it your path to return – much as you do not know yourself when you do.” The voice was a little stronger now and Boromir began to discern a lilt in the voice that reminded him a little of the way the elves spoke Westron. Could this captive be an elf? It would make sense, as this was one of their former capital cities but… could even an elf survive the captivity of millennia? “As for my name – it is forgotten and must remain so.”

 

Suddenly Kíli took several long strides into the darkness and two braziers left and right at the walls began to blaze in bright flame, casting their flickering light into the hall. “I had forgotten that little trick of yours, Thoraine,” the voice whispered, and as Boromir followed it with his eyes he saw a figure sitting on a stool by a workbench. A tall, frail figure with shadowy long dark hair and skin so pale that even the firelight could not mitigate the alabaster shine of his complexion, he sat unmoving but there was no hint of being afraid in his entire demeanor. His request for them to stay away had certainly not been spurred by fear of them.

 

“Why hide from us?” Kíli asked taking one step closer but still respecting the captive’s space. “I told you that you had nothing to fear from us – and if you truly believe you know me that you would know I keep my word.”

 

Boromir almost rolled his eyes; that was a twisted piece of logic. How could Kíli even accept that this captive thought to have met him? Where did he find the patience… and the compassion to try and reach him?

 

The elf turned to face Kíli fully, seated as he was he was about the same height that Kíli was standing. “Maybe I was hoping for you anger, Thoraine – your wrath would be easier borne than your friendship.” His eyes lit up in the flickering light of the fires. “So young still… or again? You have the bright eyes of a surface child. What do they call in this age?”

 

“My name is Kíli,” Boromir could perceive a slight tensing in Kíli’s shoulders and he saw the hand gesture that asked him to not approach closer, to give the chained elf some space. Boromir’s eyes fell to the floor where he saw the silvery chain snaking over dark stone to a shackle at the elf’s right foot.

 

“Kíli – Child of the Storm,” the elf mused. “my last student spoke of a child of such name born to a Princess of the Durin’s Line though I hardly believed him at the time.”

 

“Narvi -- he must have come here when our people turned their path north again, he knew my brother and I from when we were just dwarflings,” Kíli replied, “but why would you not believe him?”

 

“For he claimed that your great-grandfather had tried to retake Dwarrowdelf without any hopes of defeating….” The elf’s voice sank to a whisper. “without any hope for defeating Durin’s Bane… without the one born to reclaim the deeps… that he still tried and failed, orphaning you in the process. I would not believe that any King of your line, no matter how prideful would make such a mistake.”

 

“Was it truly a mistake or had it to be tried?” Kíli asked back, taking a step to the side to lean against one of the stone pillars upholding the ceiling. “Signs and portents, people ‘meant’ to do something are usually a matter of interpretation. Had Thrór succeeded they’d have hailed him as Durin reborn, as he failed we remember the courage to try what few would dare to think of. We all do what we have to do.”

 

“Do we, Kíli, son of the storm, or do we just tell that to ourselves when our road darkens and we begin to see what kind of fate we have wrought for ourselves and others?” The elf asked him, their eyes still locked onto each other’s. “Maybe I did not want to believe that another bloodbath, another doom had emerged from the curse.”

 

“The Price of the Bane might have been a heavy one,” Kíli’s voice had sunken to a whisper, “and it was not easily borne, but give that curse no more credit than it deserves.” He looked up, dark eyes fiercely alight. “and do not belittle the choices of those who fought those battles. Whatever your works created for us, Celebrimbor, that battle was brought about by our own choices, and nothing you ever did helped to breed Azog.”

 

“You know…” the voice of the elf was startled, he stood, easily taller than Kíli but there was no threat in his posture. “You know…”

 

“Aye, I should have to be mightily stupid to not know,” Kíli replied directly, looking up not the least intimated by the elf’s height. “as much as you know that Thoraine, Durin III has been resting in the stone for almost an age now – and while I am flattered that you think I resemble him, I think you knew I was not him.”

 

“You are not and you are – but that is for you alone to find out,” the elf said, leaning one hand on the workbench, his body shaking.

 

Kíli stepped forward to support him. “You had better sit down before you collapse,” he said firmly, helping the elf to sit down again. “why did you hide in the darkness? You must have heard us coming from a mile away.”

 

Celebrimbor shook his head, dark hair falling over his shoulders. “I always know if someone is in the tunnels, their sound carries as far as it does in any elven maze and I left the forge when I heard you close in – it is the first test for those who seek me out, for those who wish to learn.” His eyes cleared as he looked at Kíli. “You did not come here to learn, nor did you search for me – what brings you here?”

 

“I would rather wonder why an elf supposedly used as a bloody banner an age ago, is still alive and captured inside his own capital city,” Boromir interjected, the realization whom they were talking to had taken his words away for a moment, but now his doubts had awoken. He was not sure if it would be wise to tell this elf of all people what they were planning.

 

The elf looked up, his eyes piercing him. “The image of my body carried ahead of their armies… tell me, Numenorán, have you ever experienced the enemy using fear, not nameless fear, but a real fear, fear that comes with clear images, a clear vision of fright, against you? That your men see things that are not real, but that are so frightening that they will believe it real, that they will cease to fight and run, the fear of what they saw never leaving their soul again, have you?”

 

Boromir met the elf’s eyes, not back off. “Not against my own troops,” he said. “but against a rebellious fortress city of Haradrim and Southrons I saw it used. We captured some of their escapees and even I…. even I would not believe the stories of what supposedly happened in that city.”

 

The elf smiled wryly. “It is called the soul-sacrifice, one of their ancient dark rituals still practiced to this day, I see. It needs a volunteer – it cannot be force, which is its main weakness, as the sacrifice must be made in full knowledge what it means and what the consequences will be, few mortals have the strength for it, luckily.”

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Boromir walked closer, coming to stand by another workbench, “the Shadow has many devoted followers who will willingly lay down their lives and souls for their Great Lord. So… you claim that what was seen that day on the battlefield – your tortured body carried before the Orc armies – was something that happened only in the mind of the defenders?” A whispering voice inside him reminded him that the city had not serious siege damage, no battle damage to speak of. Had this entire city fallen to fear alone? What… what if the Easterlings ever unleashed such a curse against Minas Tirith? “Is… is there any way to stop such a sacrifice?” He had to ask, he had to know.

 

“No,” Celebrimbor bowed his head, his shoulders slumping. “none, beyond killing the carrier swiftly or making him not fulfill the sacrifice as such… and no one stops a Shadow-sworn once he is committed. They came and with them came the fear, nightmares unending, they swallowed up all of this city, the defenders fled, some turned on their own people…” his voice sank to a pained whisper. “I had to watch… trapped inside the High Hall I had to watch how they died, how they fled in fear… my mistake, my punishment.”

 

Kíli squatted down beside the sitting elf, gently clasping the frail arms with his powerful hands. “There was nothing you could have done to stop it, even if you had held off the soul sacrifice somehow, the armies would still have overrun this city. They came here because you thwarted them, because you kept something out of HIS hands… you were strong enough to thwart his plans.”

 

Again Boromir could not help but be amazed at the compassion he saw in Kíli. Few beings mortal or immortal would be understanding with this elf, with his history – and while Boromir was not sure how much right anyone had to judge him, he was amazed that Kíli found the compassion within himself.

 

“He was furious,” Celebrimbor whispered, his hands shaking now. “he came…Annatar… and his anger enveloped this city. _You think you hid them from me, the three and the seven… I shall make you watch as their doom unfolds._ He said, when he placed this chain upon me. He never found the three… but the seven, oh Thoraine, he knew of them, he knew where I had given them…”

 

A cold hand seemed to claw Boromir’s back when he realized what the presence was he felt in here, why it was this place so steeped in Shadows. Sauron himself had walked these halls at the height of his power, and the thought alone was enough to be frightened.

 

“Those receiving them did not make a secret of that either,” Kíli said. “their names live on to this day, because they wore the rings openly, which is how the dragons could find and destroy several of them so swiftly. None of them remains to this day and my people are free of their influence,” Kíli looked up to Boromir and for a moment there was a warm smile on his face. “we had brave help in breaking free, but we did it in the end. And now… now we have to bring an end to the Shadow itself.”

 

“He always hated your stubborn souls,” Celebrimbor whispered, “and he feared you – feared the danger you might pose for him, he hoped that turning you towards yourself, towards gold would end the threat.” He straightened up and in that moment Boromir could see a much stronger, much prouder elf shining through the façade of the deeply injured captive. “I will not ask what your errand is, Kíli, my heart warns me about it. But something must have brought you here in the first place – whatever help I can give you is yours.”

 

“We only came to this city to escape a Nazgûl and a few hundred Orcs,” Kíli said dryly. “but we were separated from our friends when a yard collapsed and have been looking for the way up again ever since.”

 

Celebrimbor pointed to the other end of the room where a steep tunnel rose. “If you follow that tunnel it will lead you up again,” he said. “I know, for I sometimes go there, if I stretch my chain to the utmost length it is just long enough to allow me a glimpse at the nightly skies.”

 

The words stirred something in Boromir, maybe because he had seen the dungeons under the dread city, maybe because he knew the hopeless feelings of one who knew he’d not see the light of the sun again. He could not imagine what a captivity of more than 3 millenia would mean – only that it was the cruelest mockery of immortality that he could imagine, no one deserved that. No one. “Is there a way to break the chain?” the words were out before he could stop them and surprisingly Kíli’s first reaction was smile, like he was glad Boromir had asked.

 

The dwarf looked back to Celebrimbor. “Allow me a closer look?”

 

The elf complied, leaning his bare foot on the edge of the stool, so Kíli had easy access to the manacle at his ankle. “A few of my students were determined to try, to create a true blade to cut steel and stone… but they could not grasp the true secret resting in this demand.”

 

Kíli traced his hand along the shackle and then drew the black-hilted dagger from his side, like comparing the materials against each other. “He really did not leave out one trick, the old bastard,” he grumbled as he examined the shackle further. “on first attempt I’d say the chain needs to be broken on the anvil and in two flames… but you could have done that yourself, so there has to be a guard against that.”

 

Reaching down Celebrimbor took the black-hilted dagger and arched an eyebrow. “A dragon’s claw for a hilt? I recall a dwarf who used to mock the orcs for their bone-hilted weapons, but it is close… very close, though I also see you must have worked with others of my house, there is a flair about it…”

 

“It is a blade that will cut steel and stone,” Kíli said, “though it won’t even make a dent on this chain. And that manacle… seamless, no lock, no clasp, seamless… a full circle of mithril, gaining strength on itself, ingenious that.”

 

“Not a blade like this,” Celebrimbor handed the dagger back. “but a _true_ blade to cut steel and stone, to not fail before any material in the world and to even cut into the insubstantial if wielded rightly…”

 

Recognition dawned on Kíli’s face. “A soulblade! He must really have hated your friendship with Thoraine.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I wish he had known that you were still alive, he’d have come and freed you.”

 

“As much as I thank you for those kind words – I was grateful he did not come,” Celebrimbor said softly. “I could not have faced him, not after the… after what I gave to him.”

 

“One of your ancestors would have known how to break the chain?” Boromir wondered how much irony, how much bitter fate was heaped into the story of this elf. The death legend ascribed him might have been the more merciful fate.

 

“It is an ancient secret that Durin’s true line is famous for,” Celebrimbor replied. “it was taught to Durin the Deathless by the one who passed on the secrets of fire and steel to the dwarves and has reemerged in his House time and again. It is said it will only pass from this world when the last of the dwarrow return to sleep in the stone.”

 

Kíli rose, sheathing the dagger again. “None of my weapons will make even the smallest dent into this chain – there is no way, short of making the kind of blade it takes…”

 

“And you cannot lose the time,” Celebrimbor shook his head. “you need to find your friends again before they leave the city.” The elf’s voice was calm, composed, if he felt despair over losing his hopes again it did not show.

 

“Kíli?” Boromir asked, the dwarf understood the question and walked up to him and they retreated a few steps from the workbenches. “Do you think Mithrandir might know something about this chain?” Boromir asked. “Maybe he could…”

 

“The very presence of this city is stifling him, Boromir, and we are at the heart of that presence,” Kíli said firmly. “I doubt he could do anything, even if it was within his power to break that chain. Which is highly doubtful, any artifact has one way to destroy it, and the maker of this one chose one way he was sure Celebrimbor had no access to, mocking his friendship with Durin III at the same time.”

 

“So there is nothing we can do…” Boromir hated to leave the Shadow a victory, to leave someone in the traps of the Enemy if he could help it. He had left men behind in the past, but that had been for a strategic goal, a sacrifice that had a reason, that was dictated by a bitter necessity. This… this was unnecessary suffering, and no matter what this elf had done in the past, there was a limit to penance. “That secret of your family… was it lost?”

 

“No,” Kíli shook his head. “it was not lost – it came close to being lost once, but was passed on in time, once by a dying king to his son… but it always was kept.”

 

Slowly Boromir realized what Kíli was saying. “So… you could make one?” he asked, still not quite believing it. He had seen what Aelin and Kíli had done with Narsil, but some part of his mind had yet to accept that such weapons could still be created in this time and age.

 

“It would take too much time,” Celebrimbor approached them both, his steps light on the stones, only the rattling of the chain creating sounds. “time you do not have, time the world does not have. I already caused too much doom to allow for you to delay your errand because of me.”

 

“It depends on how much time,” Boromir held against that. “because we had a Nazgûl and Orcs on our trail and if the Black Rider has not lost his entire sense he will expect us to leave the city at some point and await us there. If we make him wait though, he might believe we have fooled him and send his troops elsewhere to search.”

 

Kíli scratched his short beard. “There is truth in that, Boromir, we could evade another hunt against the Orcs that way. Though who knows how long the Nazgûl will have them watch the city?”

 

“There is a way out of this city that they will neither see nor hear,” Celebrimbor looked at them, with every moment the elf seemed more alive. “I am surprised you did not consider it earlier, Kíli. The dwarven road can bring you out of this city, beyond any Orcs and within the reach of the walls of Moria.”

 

“Not the safest place in this time and day, but it would guide is well beyond the hunting Orcs,” Kíli agreed. “I… I had not even known that there was a dwarven road linking Ost-in-Edhil and Moria, though it would make sense.”

 

“The road was not known to many,” Celebrimbor told him, “nor was it meant for many to travel on, it was just a shorter way for a few friends to aid each other in their great works. Near the place where you will emerge to the surface you will see the remains of a statue depicting the tree of flame, approach the wall behind it and you will have found the entrance.”

 

TRB

 

Celebrimbor had led them up the steep shaft that led out of the maze of underground passages and back to the surface. He had to strain the chain holding him to the furthest to reach the opening into a broken street with them. Outside night had fallen again and a few stars glittered in the skies. The elf smiled at their sight before turning to them. “Find your friends and flee from this city, the Light give that your quest will not fail.”

 

“I still wish we could free you,” Kíli disliked leaving the ancient smith behind as much as Boromir. “will you… will you be able to survive should the Nazgûl drive his orcs into this city?”

 

The elf smiled a strange, sad smile. “He will not dare and any Orc that ever entered this city died before long. Do not fear for me, Kíli. I will remain here until either my Fea flees this world or even the ward on this city will not be able to hinder its crumbling.”

 

Kíli clasped the elf’s arm. “If I survive the path before me I will come back and I will forge the blade to shatter your chains.” He promised.

 

Holding onto the firm clasp for a moment the elf’s eyes darkened. “A long path lies ahead of you, Kíli, son of Thorin, darkness awaits you, and pain… you were spared a great loss once to now experience it all the more bitterly, but there is hope on your path too – do not let it break you and you will find a dawn brighter than you believe now possible.” With that he stepped back and retreated into the tunnel below, for a while they could hear his chain rattle in the darkness, then the sound became more and more faint until it was entirely lost to them and silence fell.

 

“Farewell Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, Mahal send you a light to guide you home,” Kíli whispered before he got to his feet and stepped back from the entrance that led into the bowels of the city.

 

Neither of them spoke as they walked through the silent streets of the fallen elven city, they both knew what the other felt and neither of them had the wish to speak in this moment, finding silent comfort in the other’s presence. They passed the place with the statue Celebrimbor had described to them and followed the deep tone echoing out in the silence down another a broad lane that once must have been line with trees, even if there were only stumps left on the sides of the road.

 

When they came around the corner they saw the wall of the city again and the Eastern Gate. In the yard before the gate sat several figures by a fire, though a taller figure was standing with his back against a broken doorway watching the others. “They will find us, Gandalf, though their way might be longer than ours,” Aragorn just said. “but if anyone can find their way out of such a maze, it is them.”

 

Stepping out of the shadows Boromir and Kíli rejoined their friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	9. In the shadow of a mighty gate

Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief when the hidden stone door opened for them, the ancient dwarven road that had once linked Ost-in-Edhil and Moria had been too dark and dank a tunnel for comfort, in his opinion. Walking under the heavy stone ceiling, in the narrow tunnel with the walls pressing down on him was nothing he liked to repeat any time soon. Even the grey winter skies and the soft snowflakes dancing over the stark Hollin landscape were welcome in this moment. Looking around he was surprised to find himself standing on a high rock buckle half a mile above the rugged hills of Eregion. This certainly was not the gate of Moria. “Did you not say the dwarven road led to Moria?” he asked, turning around to see Kíli step out of the dark tunnel, the stone closing behind him.

 

“To the walls of Moria,” Kíli replied, casting a swift glance around. “no dwarven road would come out too close to the main gate, because it creates a risk in defense. We are at the Draghûn ná khal, the Hill of the Watchers, about two miles North of the main gate. If we march hard we can be past the gate and at the southern watchhill before the sun is up again.”

 

“If that were our path,” Gandalf interjected, free of the city’s draining influence the old wizard had recovered quickly and now stood at the edge of the escarpment and peered down on the landscape below. “even if we manage to cross Dunland undetected – and you should remember what kind of land it is – we would come too close to Isengard to risk the gap of Rohan.”

 

“We could sneak past the gap,” Boromir had helped Sam to repack the pony which had disliked the passage through the tunnel greatly. “once we come close to the gap, we split up. I take the dwarves with me, Saruman will know I went North, let him think what he will of my return with them, Aragorn goes with you, Gandalf and Elrohir, let Saruman wonder what errand for Elrond you are on, and Aelin takes the Hobbits, to sneak past Isengard while Saruman is still focused on us – we meet up once we are out of his reach and continue on. It might fool him.”

 

Gandalf came around, his thick eyebrows furrowed. “No one fools the White Wizard easily, Boromir, he would see through your plan before you could finish executing it. No, the gap of Rohan is closed to us as long as we are with the Ringbearer.”

 

Elrohir arched an eyebrow at Gandalf. “And the pass roads will not open until late spring, if at all. The ice has all but swallowed up several passages already. With both ways blocked what remains?” The elven warrior’s words were thoughtful.

 

The Wizard sighed. “One road remains – a dark and dangerous road that I would avoid if I could, Elrohir. I am loath to venture into the deeps of the world, for I was once forced to pass through the long darkness – but all other paths are barred to us.”

 

“What path is he speaking of?” Boromir’s question cut into Aragorn’s own musings, the Gondorian had eyed the wizard critically, his gaze reminding Aragorn that neither Denethor nor his sons were known to trust Gandalf – or any wizard for that matter.

 

“He speaks of Moria – the great kingdom of the dwarves, which fell under the shadow more than a millennium ago,” Aragorn replied, a shiver running down his spine as he recalled his own captivity in the deeps. “it is a dark place, Boromir, the grave of thousands of defenders who fell before the hordes of Orcs, haunted by a terror that has no name.”

 

Suddenly he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, a gesture of support and maybe of silent understanding. “You know these deeps, do you?” Boromir asked. “Do you think there is even a chance to pass through them?”

 

“Knowing is too great a word for any Man to claim when it comes to the deeps of Moria,” Aragorn replied after a moment. “I was once captured down there… had it not been for Kíli I doubt I would have escaped.” He straightened up, pushing past the dark memories and stepped back to look for the dwarf. “Kíli – what do you think? Back then you seemed to know more about Moria than any of us.”

 

The dwarf joined them, eyes assessing the group as he passed. “Khazad-dûm is not a place to enter lightly, Aragorn, I do not need to tell you that. Back then the deeps were empty, because the Orcs had not yet recovered from their losses in the Battle of the Five Armies. By now I expect them to be as strong again as they were when King Thrór tried to reclaim the kingdom.” The dwarf’s deep voice had taken a grim edge. “That said, I believe that we might slip past them if we are careful and hide well. Orcs we can evade, the odd cave troll we can fool… but there is one danger that we might have to outrun at the end. You know of what I speak – you saw him.”

 

A deep cold seemed to lock Aragorn’s heart when Kíli mentioned Durin’s Bane, he well remembered the fear, the horror as they had run up the long stairs towards the watchtowers of Zirak-Zigil, the howls of the creature ringing out in the darkness and… had it not been for one brave elf Kíli might not have made it out in the end. “Durin’s Bane,” Aragorn had to force himself to name the fear he felt. “how long do you think until he senses your presence?”

 

“I do not know, but if experience serves as an indicator than it might take him a few days. Bilbo was even of the opinion that it was not my presence that woke him up, as he had not reacted to Thirán’s presence in all those years.” The dwarf crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Rú later said a few – very few – things about the creature that might of use now.”

 

Boromir looked from one to the other. “What kind of beast is haunting these mines?” his question was asked in utter calm, a Captain assessing a threat, and a warrior well used to the Shadow having a wide arsenal of monsters at its disposal.

 

“Moria… Khazad-dûm,” Aragorn amended, remembering the dwarven name of the great kingdom, “is haunted by an ancient, nameless terror, a creature of fire and shadow that has no name nor compare. For its deeds it is often called Durin’s Bane and it is said to sense the presence of Durin’s blood inside the halls of Moria.”

 

“Which might be a much legend as many other things,” Gandalf’s discussion with Elrohir had long come to an end. “but there is hope our presence might go undetected, if we take the shortest way it is a four day’s march to the other side.”

 

Kíli craned his neck to stare up at the wizard challengingly. “The shortest way is not very safe, Tharkûn, nor especially advisable, leading through too many great halls where the Orcs could swarm us. But there are hidden ways we can use, if you are willing to trust me.”

 

For a moment Aragorn could feel tension mount between the two very unlike comrades, with the wizard’s temper rising and Kíli not willing to give ground, but surprisingly Gandalf chuckled, his laugh evaporating his anger. “You are entirely too much like your father, Kíli, but I do trust you – I do indeed.”

 

Aragorn watched Kíli take point to lead them down towards the gate of the Moria, the dwarf moved across the grounds with the familiarity of a being standing on the soil of his homeland. In the swiftly waning light of the day he was glad to have someone so easily familiar with the grounds on top of the group. Gandalf followed and Aragorn fell into step with him. “I did not know you ever entered Moria yourself,” he observed. “you did not even mention it, when you warned me about the deeps.” His own journey down into the bowels of the Earth was not one he liked to remember – he had been foolish to try in the first place, and yet he knew that he could not have lived with himself had he not at least tried.

 

“I went in search of an individual that I thought might be inside those walls – a person from which I hoped to gain an answer on something that was deeply worrying me at the time. Though my search for Thráin proved fruitless in the end and I was forced to retreat from the fallen kingdom.”

 

“Thráin?” Aragorn’s eyes widened slightly. “You searched for Kíli’s grandfather? Why? I thought he fell in the battle of Azanulbizar.”

 

Kíli peered back, letting Anvari and the Hobbits pass by him and down to the valley ground. “That is a kind assumption, Aragorn,” the dwarf said. “but Thraín’s mind broke in the battle, when he saw his father die and he fled the field. His fate after that was a strange and lonely one, though one might hope he found a measure of peace in the end.” He turned to walk on, addressing Gandalf at the same time. “Frérin knew about every dwarf who was captive in the deeps and he was sure that Thráin was never among them.”

 

The old wizard sighed, his gaze going back to Aragorn. “I had many reasons to search for Thráin, some vague, some unrealistic as it was later proven, some out of concern for Eriador… in the end it was meaningless.”

 

Aragorn could sense that the old wizard did not share all his reasons, nor could he begin to guess what worries might have driven him to that decision. As neither Gandalf nor Kíli seemed inclined to discuss the topic further he shrugged and let it go. Looking ahead he saw Kíli at the top of the column, he had stopped for a moment, letting the others pass by him. A bird had landed on his hand, a Raven though Aragorn though the bird’s plumage was too light, to be one. He was almost grateful when Boromir, who had helped Sam to bring the pony over a particular steep hillside, caught up with him again. The Gondorian also brought a torch because with full nightfall  close at hand their sight would soon be reduced to little more than few steps, as much as the moonlight allowed. “I have heard only mentions of King Thrór and his battle for Dwarrowdelf before,” the Captain said. “aside of a ballad _Coming Home from Dimril Dale_ there is little known of this war amongst my people.”

 

“I wouldn’t mention that ballad in front of any dwarf,” Aragorn said with a smile, unsurprised that Boromir would take interest in the story of an ancient battle. “for it is a badly translated version of _Children of Blood_. None of them came home after Azanulbizar, for they had nowhere to go…” in short words he summed up what he knew about the great battle the dwarves had fought more than one hundred and fifty years ago. “no one can tell the story like a dwarf, though,” he said in the end. “ask Kíli one day when he gets into the mood, he was raised amongst the survivors and will know how to tell the story properly.”

 

He saw Boromir open his mouth to reply, but sharp words at the top of the column interrupted them. “I do not think it wise to try a hole that the Orcs will most likely have found long ago.” Gandalf’s voice was edged and sharp, he stood opposite of Kíli ahead of the group at something of a crossroads. Straight ahead ran the path they had been following, while left a small path wound uphill again.

 

“No you’d prefer using the front gate – which will force us to follow the great halls for half a day at the least,” Kíli snapped back, his deep voice grumbling with anger. There was another edge to that voice too, something strained and tense that Aragorn could not quite identify. “why don’t we just knock politely and demand an audience with his Malevolence?”

 

“I have seen maps of the city in Rivendell, there are only two entrances to the deeps, you would do well to remember that, Master Dwarf.” Gandalf’s beard quivered in anger and his eyes shone in barely restrained temper.

 

“And what makes you think that they ever knew the full map of Khazad-dûm?” Kíli shook his head. “But if you insist on running your head against the front door – do it without me.”

 

Aragorn’s heart sank – for two supremely stubborn beings Gandalf and Kíli easily sparked shouting matches. He strode up to them raising his hands. “Maybe we should not alert all Orcs of Eregion of our plans?” he asked, a sharp glance going to both of them. “Now – you were arguing the way again?” He hated having to assume authority in front of both of them, for he respected them highly, but it was the only way to dissolve the quarrel.

 

“Aye,” Kíli pointed up the small path. “two hours further up is a hidden tunnel, part of the ventilation shafts that keep Dwarrowdelf’s air clean, it reaches deep down to the waterworks. If we climb down we will be able to follow the waterworks for most of our journey and should attract little attention.”

 

Gandalf shook his head. “The Orcs must be using these open shafts already, they are easy for them to scale and entering the waterworks means entering the deeps that are under the shadow. We must keep away from them and closer to the higher levels where the shadow is weaker if we wish to survive this journey.”

 

Inwardly Aragorn sighed, both of them were used to take the lead, to be in charge and both naturally assumed that their knowledge of Moria qualified them to decide on the course they were to take. And both of them were stubborn enough to clash over it. “You both are right and you are both wrong,” he said, hoping to calm them a little. “Gandalf is right about avoiding the great deeps – Kíli, I fear the deeper we come the greater our danger will be, sticking to the upper halls might be better for us. And Mithrandir…” Aragorn softened his speech, he could not tell the wizard off, no matter what. “Kíli might know other entrances into the deeps than the great gate. You said you trusted him.”

 

“I do trust him, I am not a fool,” Gandalf’s eyes were still ablaze with anger. “but charting a course through the darkest parts of Moria will not help us.” He turned around and walked off to the head of the column.

 

Aragorn saw Kíli cross his arms in front of his chest and he could almost guess that the dwarf was contemplating to leave and find his own way. But then the dwarrow relaxed slowly. “I guess he’s had enough of dwarves for one day,” he said grimly.

 

Shaking his head Aragorn eyes his friend. “What is it between you and him? You trust each other but are more prone to argue than anyone else in the group.” He walked slowly, glad when Kíli fell into step beside him.

 

“I inherited part of the conflict from my father I guess,” the dwarf replied after a while. “he and Gandalf clashed a number of times in the past. And I…” he broke off. “It is all useless now, we will try his way and hope it works.”

 

Aragorn could see how much Kíli simply retreated behind the mask of the warrior, brushing aside the conflict. “Why is it that you do not trust Gandalf?” he asked, hoping that Kíli would not brush him aside too.

 

“I do trust him,” Kíli said slowly. “I do trust him to oppose the Shadow and to act as his consciousness demands of him… what the consequences for others might be is an entirely different issue.” He walked a few steps past Aragorn so his back was to the human warrior.

 

Aragorn saw the bowed head and how Kíli’s hands shot up to his temples, he tried to hide it but the healer’s quick eyes saw it either way.

“Are you sure that it is only you having an issue with Gandalf, and not something else spurring the conflict?” Aragorn asked gently, not trying to push his friend. But he sensed something else at work here, something that would try to rip them apart if it could.

 

Kíli took a slow breath, exhaling as slowly, like to release a tension deep inside him. “You think that it is… the Shadow? That I am falling to the lure?”

 

“We all feel the pressure, Kíli,” Aragorn pointed out. “I doubt there is anyone unaffected by it, it is the trust we have in each other that keeps us from being easy targets.”

 

The dwarf inclined his head, the long braids falling forward. “Maybe you are right.” He said softly. “Maybe it is this shadow that I feel… and not something else.”

 

TRB

 

The hour was approaching Midnight when they path became narrower running along the side of a steep rockface and aside of a dark lake on the other hand. Aragorn walked in a sharp stride when he approached the top of the column, they were passing a few barren trees and then stood before a rockface much like any other here. The pale light of the moon touched the wall and revealed the silvery glowing lines of a gate, inscribed in flowing elven script.

 

 _"Ennyn Durin Aran Moria. Pedo Mellon a Minno. Im Narvi hain echant. Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant i thiw hin. -_ The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter. I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs." Gandalf had raised his staff to trace the writings at the door.

 

Aragorn silently echoed the translation of the elven words, he could not read the dwarven runes written beneath the band, though he guessed they said something similar. “Do you know the word for the door?” he asked Gandalf.

 

“No, like you I entered through the broken Eastern Gate,” Gandalf replied, leaning on his staff, his anger had evaporated and peered at Aragorn thoughtfully. “You think me a fool to argue with Kíli.”

 

“Not a fool,” Aragorn smiled slightly. “he must be remarkably like his famous father to vex you so easily.” He knew his old friend, the wizard often was easily angered but he was also quick to laugh, his anger rarely lasted long.

 

The grey wizard’s eyes sparkled. “Worse, he reminds me of Thrór in his young years, before the Grey Mountains fell.” He shook his head. “His dynasty did not get any less stubborn in the passing years.” His eyes went to the side where Kíli stood with Anvari and Frodo. The dwarf was talking to the Hobbit, placing something small into Frodo’s hand.

 

“Bilbo taught you how to read this, Frodo,” Kíli’s voice was firm if still tense, “and you know how our halls are marked – the same marking system you saw in Erebor was used in Moria. If you get separated from us, this is your best chance to find your way out again.”

 

“Bilbo told me of your adventures in Moria,” Frodo said with a small smile. “I… I better hope to not get lost in the deeps of Khazad-Dûm.” Sam came over, bringing them the additional packs they would have to take now that they pony was left behind.

 

Leaving the two Hobbits alone for a moment, the two dwarves approached the door. “Arûk Durin drár Khazad-Dûm, ugrûz ragim scorcáz, thardûn khazad. Ti Narvi dór norim, Celebrimbor vár Eregion ulgein ragun.” Anvari read out the dwarven inscription, his eyes tracing over the seven stars, the anvil and the single star engraved on the door. “Narvi… as in Narvi of Dwenderholm Passage?” he asked softly.

 

 “Narvi of Dwenderholm passage and ancestor to Narvi of Deepsilver crossing,” Kíli replied his voice warm at the words, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “and ancestor to you, Anvari. Through your mother blood ties you to these very gates. Like all our lines lead back to the deeps of Dwarrowdelf.”

 

The dwarf tilted his head and looked up to the wizard standing beside him. “The old problem about dwarf doors?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

 

Gandalf smiled slightly. “I could imagine easier ways to open doors than through easily forgotten riddles,” he said, his eyes worried at the dwarf. “Something is haunting you, Kíli… and I doubt it is the burden Frodo carries.” There was genuine concern in his words now, as he stepped closer to the dwarf.

 

Kíli shook his head, averting his gaze swiftly. “It is nothing… nothing we can do anything about.” He said softly. “and we better get going as long as we are undiscovered. Tell the others to stay away from the water.”

 

 “Kíli,” Aragorn approached their friend, hoping the dwarf would listen. “if there is something burdening you… sharing might help. If it something threatening us, or something that happened in the city…”

 

The dwarf looked up to him and to his surprise Aragorn saw Kíli’s eyes shine with a great sadness. “They said that King Thrór saw a White Raven the Night before he died,” he said his voice hushed. “and they say that another saw the Raven too, because it landed on his hand but the White Raven had not come for him yet.”

 

Remembering the strangely light feathered bird he had seen on Kíli’s hand earlier Aragorn shook his head. “It is a legend, Kíli, if any pale bird was a death omen…”

 

The dwarf’s eyes darkened a little. “And what if I told you that the White Raven came to a really small dwarf child back then – that night before King Thrór died?” He sighed. “I am sorry, Aragorn, I shouldn’t worry you with all this. We need to leave this place swiftly, the swifter the better.” With that he turned towards the doors of dwarrowdelf.

 

When the door opened before them, Aragorn made sure that none of the others tarried, much as he disliked the thought of entering Moria again – he knew that they better hurried before they were discovered. They passed the ancient stone threshold, the gate closing behind them. The long silence of Moria lying ahead of them.

 

 

TRB

 

The very same day on the other side of the world Thrakaine inspected the outlying formations of the siege camp, beside him walked Diralmon, Khan of the Vargians. “I am telling you Thrakaine, my boys have shown often enough how to die in that accursed bottleneck of a gate. Their fortifications are strong and their morale is impeccable. Make of that what you want, Easterling. Three months of Siege and what do we have to show for it?”

 

Silently Thrakaine agreed, the dwarven fortress had little in terms of attackable structures and those were well defended. Most of the Mountain was closed and the one structure they could attack was the main gate – a veritable fortress unto itself, which had seen the blood of many of his troops already. He had sent word back East that he needed masses – legions of Orcs to wear down the defenders, if this Siege was to go anywhere. But they had not yet an answer to that – the Siege of Erebor was a minor theater of the greater war that was breaking out South. “You are right, Diralmon,” he said. “we need to weaken their morale, if we do not break their spirit, this will end like the great siege to Moria back in the great war.”

 

“And how do you suppose we do that?” The Varigian grumbled. “For I see little use in storming the gates for the thirtieth time, and they will hardly let us inside to wreak havoc.”

 

“No, but they will let others inside – they are too noble not to,” Thrakaine smiled coldly, patience was a virtue and while it had taken Moricai longer than expected to break the Iron Hills, he had done what he was supposed to do eventually. “This night an entire trek of dwarves will try to make it past our siege ring… I have retracted most of our Eastern camp to let them through believing they spotted a weakness in our formations.”

 

The Varigian Khan looked up grinning. “And you think the dwarves will have to let them in…”

 

“Exactly.” Thrakaine confirmed the thought. “they will have to open the gate and once they do we will storm with all we have. Bloodbanner and Fist of the Skies will carry the main storm – your men will do mop up action and pick off all that flees from the field once the trap closes.”

 

The Varigian saluted him. “Will do, Thrakaine. The Night give you wings.”

 

TRB

 

The Night was quiet, an icy wind drove the snow down from the North so hard that Thrakaine shivered under his heavy fur-lined cloak. The Eastern camp had been emptied and it was easy to see that the fleeing dwarves from the Iron Hills were making use of the gap they had found. Standing atop the height of Raven Hill Thrakaine could watch as they scrambled through the snow – they were a pitiful bunch, many wounded, many hardly able to stand or walk, some carrying injured or even children with them. He looked to the side were a rider came galloping up the hill. “Moricai?” he asked, expecting the commander of the Eastern campaign.

 

“No, Legat, he is dead,” the rider dismounted and took his helm off, revealing a youthful but somewhat familiar face framed by light hair. “his second in command was slain by Dáin when we broke the gates of the Iron city and his seconds in turn fell in the battle in the city. I took over from there. Shantar of the Eternal Banner.”

 

So the dwarves from the Iron Hills had extracted heavy losses on Moricai – how had the idiot managed to get himself killed? Thrakaine thought angrily. Though he did not let his annoyance at Moricai’s untimely death cloud his mien. “I should have known that one of Shakurán’s boys would make it through,” he said jovially. “how many refugees are you driving against these gates?”

 

“No more than three thousand – the rest lies dying the snows behind us,” Shantar reported calmly, though there was some grim edge in his voice. “I ordered my men to leave those alone and keep pushing on those who were still running as per your orders. The cold will finish off the rest without our help.”

 

Thrakaine noticed the grim tension in the voice but did not mark it for disloyalty. Shantar was young and in spite of having a Dorvinión mother he was an Easterling through his father and more through his training. He had performed well. “Good work on that – we need those desperate creatures under the gates. Gather your men, you will push hard at them in pursuit, once the gates open we will support you with our forces.”

 

“I did not have my men ride five days through snow and storm to play forlorn hope to your little Siege,” Shantar squared his shoulders, gazing at Thrakaine coldly. “if you need some beasts for slaughter, have your Varigians mount and meet their befitting end.”

 

Thrakaine lauged, Shantar was the son of his father through and through, and he took his responsibility serious, which was a good sign. Many young commanders who inherited their post from those fallen were all too glad to hand responsibility back to their elders, those who didn’t were the material the legions needed. “I need someone competent down there – someone who will push so hard that the dwarves cannot leave the gates closed. I hope you did leave someone of the Iron Hill’s Dynasty alive to slay effectively under the gates?”

 

“I think so,” Shantar replied. “but your troops better support my men swiftly, most of my riders are exhausted.” He remounted his horse to return to his troops and lead the final push into the blood trap.

 

“They will be there, be assured.” Thrakaine looked at him. “and Shantar – the dwarven King slew Idramar – if you wish to free his soul, show him what blood vengeance is.” He knew that his words had hit home in the gleam of Shantar’s eyes – nothing but a bit of rage to inspire a true battle. Idramar’s sacrifice would prove useful this night.

 

Shantar did not push his horse hard as he followed the fleeing dwarves within range of the walls, the animal was tired and pushing it was not necessary. He had taken his short bow and aimed at the first fleeing dwarf, the arrow flew and hit true, dropping the stumbling figure into the snow, a black shadow in the white field under a cold, uncaring moon. His shot was the signal for the entire Eternal banner to not hold back any longer. Up till now they had not killed the fleeing dwarves even as they could – now the time of dying had begun. His next arrow felled a fleeing warrior, who dropped a smaller figure that scrambled on alone – it had to be dwarf child. Shantar took the next arrow aiming carefully, then averting his aim a little more down and released. The feather shaft shot through the darkness and impaled the fleeing child’s leg. The shrill scream of pain heralding the child’s plight. Shantar did not waste a second arrow on the youth, but turned on the next dwarf in range, most of them were close to the gates now, and the riders closing in behind them. The defenders would have to make their decision any moment – either they watched a massacre before their walls or they came out.

 

He could already see the dark mass of dwarves under the battlements, right in front of the heavy gates of the Mountain, their strongest had corralled the weak ones against the gate and built a circle of defense against the riders. A brave, honorable gesture – but a useless one. His riders were on one line with him, waiting for his command. He took the last of his spears – he had used most of them up in the last days, and raised it, the formation spread out, when he threw the spear at the dwarf he perceived as the leader of the defenders, his riders charged, a galloping formation of death down on the ragged dwarves. His own horse picked up speed, heavy hooves galloping on the icy grounds, the impacting with the dwarven formation deathly for the animal, but it broke into the circle of steel their warriors had formed. Shantar dismounted, his two curved swords cutting through the first opponents. The dwarven formation shattered within moments, some of them began to flee again, only to run into the Varigian formations that sprung up in their flanks. He stabbed another dwarf. Death! Death was upon them and only now they understood that they were trapped.

 

A horn rang out into the icy night, one single deep bronze horn cutting through the silence. Shantar came around and he saw it – the great gates of the Mountain were opening, behind them the clarions of the banners rang like an answer, commanding the Easterlings to attack.

 

Pulling his frayed formation closer together Shantar led his men under the gate of the Mountain. They spared little time on the refuges from the Iron Hills – it was bigger game that they were hunting for now. Their storm was met halfway outside the gates by a dwarven force moving outward – an entire dwarven banner, maybe two or three even, pushing outside and at them. The first impact of both forces was horrible, axes cleaving through warriors left and right, Shantar’s men faltering, he had to fight off three dwarves at once, stabbing one he felt a blade eat through his armor and cut into his flesh, he pulled back and brought his blade down on the dwarf wielding that axe, another came close and he stabbed him with the blade in his left hand.

 

Behind them fresh forces came in, pouring down on the dwarves – Thrakaine himself leading his men into the storm. Shantar saw him and others coil up in fights under the gate itself. He looked around – at least half of the dwarven force was outside the gate range – they were trying to bring their people into the Mountain, while Thrakaine’s storm was stunted in the gauntlet behind the gate. Shantar raised his sword, signaling his formation and all close to turn and cut the dwarves off from their own gate. Block them from retreating and getting into Thrakaine’s back.

 

Attacking the first group of dwarves Shantar thought how strange it was to fight with his back to the gate, but he had no time to think about that, because the dwarves outside began to realize their mistake – they began to understand that they were cut off from getting back into their own fortress and threw themselves at them with all rage and anger. Shantar had his hands full in fighting them off, Darkness above, dwarven rage was nothing he had ever expected to be so fierce. He ducked under a new attack, running his blade through the dwarf once he was exposed, kicking away the weapon of the next.

 

Shrieks rose behind him, Thrakaine was losing ground at the gate, but was still blocking the bottleneck for the dwarves, but the numbers of the dwarves trying to break back through the gate was dwindling. Hastily Shantar looked around – higher up on the hill heavy fighting ensued – the noise of clashing weapons and the screams of wounded fighters echoing through the icy night. Cutting through several attackers, Shantar raced away from the gate and uphill with his remaining troops, realizing that something was going wrong at their own flank.

 

When he came outside the range of the gate he saw it – the dwarves had opened another door into the Mountain, a postern of sorts, using it to retract their troops. The Varigians had engaged the dwarves there, but were held off by a dwarven formation on a hill right before the postern. The dwarves there were led by one old warrior – one mighty fighter. Shantar saw him cut down the Varigan Khan and several Varigans without so much as a break, the mighty two handed sword the dwarf wielded was unrelenting, each hit took another attacker, with each new swing another body fell into the snow, piling up at the hill beneath the dwarf’s feet.

 

“That dwarf needs to die,” Ryvan, Shantar’s second in command panted. “Great Lord – he is cutting through our people like they are leaves in the wind.” His eyes fell to Shantar. “You still have arrows – shoot him.”

 

Shantar’s hand sank to his quiver, he had indeed some arrows left. But it would be an Orc’s prank to kill a valiant fighter like that – shooting him until he died. It was one of the more successful Orc tactics and utterly dishonorable. “No,” he said softly. “he is fighting valiantly – and we will face him the same way. The Great Lord is recruiting a legion of souls tonight – us among them.”

 

They stormed the hill, the defenders were thinned out by the heavy fighting, but the retreat of the dwarves was almost complete and the old warrior began to send part of his fighters back to the postern, holding their way open, with the few remaining with him. Ryvan was the first to reach him, cut down almost effortlessly in the first bout, the old fighter came around and advanced into Shantar’s formation, killing three more before retreating two steps and doing the same to the left flank again. Shantar’s heard pounded against his ribcage. What a warrior! He must be older than all of them, but he reaped their lives like they were ears in summer.

 

Only there was no summer – only the blood and snow and an icy winter moon illuminating the hill of the battle. The old dwarf stood tall, his sword in both hands, his hair shone like silver in the cold light of the skies. Shantar advanced dropping one of his two blades, as he fell into attack position, he had not consciously chosen to do so – but he could not do anything else but face this warrior honorably.

 

Their blades clashed, Shantar used his taller stature to bring his blade about and break free, but he found his next attack already parried with a casual ease that belied the old fighter’s years. He had only just the time to parry the next attacks, each hit was powerful, and shaking his blade that he feared it would shatter. Ducking away from one more attack he advanced and broke through the dwarf’s cover, his blade grazing along the heavy armor, metal shrieking loudly, but his sword had more scratches than the shoulder armor of the dwarf. Darkness above – how much steel did this dwarf carry?

 

Again their blades met, more fiercely this time and Shantar felt a fierce pain stab through his side when the dwarf’s sword cut through his armor, warm blood tickled through the layers of leather and chainmail, freezing in the icy air. Their eyes met and in the light of the winter moon Shantar saw a pair of cold blue eyes, determined and superior – moments before a furious storm of attacks was aimed at him. He blocked swiftly, his sword whirling in a deathly dance to catch the enemy blade before it could reach him.

 

Nearly all dwarves had retreated past them and Thrakaine was being pushed out of the gate – Shantar could hear a loud thunderous noise – the dwarves were bringing down their heavy stone doors again. The Mountain was closing. The old warrior grinned at him. “I won’t dishonor you by asking for you surrender, young one,” he growled in the common tongue. “but your life will be spared if you give yourself up, on that you have my word.”

 

He was a man of honor, Shantar thought, and a warrior like none other – maybe the best there was left in the world. Though, he had a weakness, after the fifth bout of deathly attacks Shantar had begun to see it. He was almost tempted to retreat and keep that flaw to himself – maybe legends should not die. Only he had his duty, and an oath to uphold. “I will not dishonor you by asking for your surrender either, brave one,” he replied in the same tongue, falling into attack stance anew.

 

Again he broke through the cover, his blade uselessly grazing on the armor and again came the defense, the same, brutal, swift attacks that were supposed to push him back. This time Shantar stepped into the blade, letting it hit home, embracing the pain, the hot blood that flooded from his side down his leg, it was necessary, because in this moment that the blade was buried into his side, the dwarf was defenseless. Marshalling all his strength Shantar brought up his curved sword, ramming it down, tip first into the tiny crack where hauberk and chainmail coif met, through the shoulder into the dwarf’s chest. The dwarf stumbled, collapsing, the bloodied blade slipped form Shantar’s hands, he broke down to his knees, the pain from his side shooting into his chest. The dwarf had landed on his back, half still sitting. He coughed hard, his breath rattling in his throat. Still one strong hand grasped Shantar’s wrist, forcing him down beside the dwarf.

 

“Your name?” The dwarf rasped, his breath ragged, while his lifeblood ran from his armor and colored the snow red.

 

“Shantar, why… why do you want to know?” The young Easterling felt the snow touch his wounded side, but there was no cold, not even a numb feeling, just nothing.

 

“Because you will walk into the death beside me and I want to know my companion,” the dwarf’s voice was strained, his body convulsing and the end came swiftly. Shantar sank into the snow, not breaking the grip of the dead warrior’s hand on his wrist. His strength was rapidly waning, and suddenly he was cold, shivering with weakness. Looking up he saw the moon in the skies above them and the heavy snow flakes dancing down, like they wanted to cover the corpses. Shantar knew he should relinquish his soul to the void, to join all those who were dedicated to the Great Lord… but he couldn’t. If this was the end, he wanted to die alone and in silence, beside the legend he had helped kill. Heavy snowflakes touched his face, melting to water, like the tears he did not have. A shadow fell over him, blocking his view only moments before a heavy hit turned his world black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> I guess I should not write with my head pounding… but it’s happened and here it is. The battle took a bit of an odd perspective… maybe my own emotions refused to write it any other way. Bad me.


	10. To pass into silence

The silence rested on Moria like a heavy blanket, smothering all there was in the empty halls and long dark passageways. If Gandalf had spoken of the long dark of Moria, the silence was by far the more oppressive force of this place, or so Boromir felt as he walked at the rear of the group. Their own steps echoed too loudly into the great silence, and every so often when a rock would slip under their boots the noise of stone cluttering on stone would make Boromir wince, like every noise they made, every loud step of them was disturbing the rest of an ancient grave. In the scarce light they had he could only catch glimpses of mines, dark shafts falling into the deeps beside them, broken carts and cranes, the remains of an ore wash and other remains of the great works once done here flickered by in the semi-darkness. Now and then Boromir spotted tools – a heavy hammer, a mining pick or a dropped pickaxe beside the shafts – that had they been left here on the days the mines had been overrun? The sight of them left a deep, sad feeling in his heart – how many had perished when this underground realm had fallen? How had their downfall begun? Had doom fallen swiftly, an inevitable fate striking them all down? Or had it come slowly, in a fight trying to stem the tide of darkness, until there were too few fighters were left and their strength ran out?

 

He did not know why the sight of the empty mines touched him so – but the longer he walked in the dark, catching glimpses of the deep chasm that the dwarves had built their mines in, the less he could look away. What mighty strength had it taken to create a realm like this? To tunnel these foreboding mountains and build a kingdom like none other in the world and then to defend it against Orcs and Goblins? Sometimes he felt like he could almost see their fading figures fight battles in these tunnels – like he could hear their shouts, their voices…

 

“Boromir!” Kíli’s voice interrupted his thoughts, the dwarf stood only a step before him, he must have headed back to him when he had failed to respond to something said before. “Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes searching Boromir’s face.  

 

“I… I am fine, just not used to being underground like this.” Inwardly Boromir chastised himself for letting this place, this beautiful, eerie place get to him like this. He needed to focus, not get lost in dreams of the past, a rear guard had to pay attention not to get sucked into a dream, no matter how beautiful and haunting the surroundings were. He had not made such a mistake in many years and felt his cheeks burn.

 

Kíli light clapped his arm, not noticing his embarrassment. “I know it must be hard for you – especially here in the old mines it feels like half the Mountain is weight down on us. But we’ll leave the chasm now – there is an old shaft that climbs up to the outskirts of the city, from which can proceed much more easily.”  He turned and headed back to the top of the group to guide them towards something that looked like a dead end, but in truth proved to be shaft they could climb.

 

As they walked on Boromir made himself focus on the group more, consciously trying to ignore the reaches of the mines around him, for they managed to gain his attention time and again. So he kept his eyes on the group. Gandalf was at the front with Kíli, followed by Aragorn, behind them were the Hobbits. The two elves walked with their calm unshaken, though Elrohir had fallen into step beside Anvari and Frodo, talking softly to them as they proceeded through the tunnel.

 

“No,” Anvari just said. “the works where the ore was processed must be somewhere to the North of us, if the wallmarkers are correct, above us the habitation levels begin already, probably mainly the homes of the miners. And maybe the old tradequarters – I think I saw a wallmarker to that effect a while ago.” The young dwarf stopped beside a steep shaft, that climbed upwards and checked that none of the group had gone lost, then he helped Sam into the steep shaft, the Hobbit’s foot nearly missed the iron bar, but Anvari’s unfailing grip steadied him and Sam began the climb up.

 

“How deep does Moria reach?” Elrohir asked as he helped Frodo up towards the shaft, old iron bars inside were the only help for the climb but the Hobbit grabbed them deftly and began to climb upwards with much greater ease than his friend had done.

 

“Twenty eight deeps down and twenty three heights up, excluding the watchtowers and the Seat of Kings,” Anvari pulled himself up on the bars following Frodo with the practiced ease of someone at home in such surroundings, he went slower to not put pressure to climb fast on their smaller comrades. “The waterworks lie beneath, when it became impossible to pump all the water out of the mines, they were built – a network of deep tunnels beneath the deepest reaches. As water will always flow downwards, all water from the mines goes there and is carried out of the Mountains by several drainage tunnels that carry the water towards either Dunland or the Anduin valley.” Albeit Anvari only spoke in a hush, the shaft carried the whisper down to them.

 

When Elrohir was up inside the shaft Boromir followed, the steel bars were easily grabbed though their distance was too short for him, he had to grab every third to make good progress up. Luckily Dwarves were so broad-shouldered that they usually built tunnels broad enough for a Man to pass through without problems. “But it is said that the lower deeps have sunk into water,” he pointed out, keeping his voice low to not disturb the silence of the mines. “if the water is drained from the mines like that, how could it happen?”

 

He could not see Anvari’s reaction, as the younger dwarf was up ahead of them, but he heard the soft answer. “Who knows what the Orcs did to the tunnels? Maybe they managed to block one off, thus creating a dam. No one has been in the deeps of Moria in a long time, Boromir – who knows what things sleep down there?”

 

Again the words touched a strange chord inside Boromir, a painful, almost familiar echo that he had no name for. Not allowing himself to dwell on is any longer he focused on climbing up the shaft, he noticed that the bars were only marginally wet, and the walls had no condensed water. The air systems of the mine must be very good to prevent humidity to spread in the deeps.

 

It did not take long for them to reach the upper end, the shaft opened into a narrow tunnel that was just so high enough to allow Boromir to stand without hunching. He was grateful that the dwarves seemed to have a penchant for building tall halls, otherwise this journey would have become straining very soon.

 

“Where now?” he heard Gandalf ask Kíli, the wizard had taken off his hat which had come into conflict with the ceiling.

 

“We follow the miner’s town east, until we reach Thandurion crossing, just before the ninth hall.” Kíli replied taking the lead again, moving ahead of them like a shadow. “There we will need to divert our path slightly to avoid crossing the Hall of Heroes and the Hall of Flame.” The answer seemed to satisfy the wizard, because he nodded curtly and relit his staff, providing a dim light as they went on.

 

Aelin had relieved Boromir of rear guard, and he found himself near the top of the group with Aragorn. The Ranger walked on soft feet, his steps hardly causing an echo in the silence around them, though he was tense, eyes always on the dark tunnels surrounding them. And there was a great number of those now – for these were living quarters, stone doorways opened to what had been homes, small hallways linked ‘backalley’ homes, and stairs led up and down between the housings. More than down in the mines they encountered traces of habitation now – trashed items, broken furniture and leftover items, long destroyed by Orcs were commonplace, and Boromir found it hard to look at them. He was grateful that there were no bones lying around – though that raised the sickening thought what the Orcs would have done to their captives, dead or alive.

 

An entire city eradicated by legions of Ors – it was what he had been fighting against all his life, to prevent his own home to fall to such a fate, but seeing it for real drove the thought home all the more strongly. He had seen devastated settlements before in Ithilien, but he had always forbidden himself to picture what Minas Tirith would look like after it fell to the dark hordes. Down here in the shadows of a long fallen Kingdom that picture became a frightening image and one he found hard to shake off.

 

For hours they walked through the narrow hallways, stairs leading up and down and along winding corridors, only guided by marks that were hewn in the walls long ago. Boromir could only guess that they signified some system of orientation that the dwarves were using, something with numbers like Kíli used them when he named halls or crossroads. Boromir kept his attention on the way and on the scarce comments Kíli made about their way, trying to work out how the dwarf navigated the halls. It kept his mind occupied in the nameless hours of walking. They continued onwards, vaguely east he hoped, until Frodo nearly stumbled over his own feet and was swiftly caught by Anvari. The younger dwarf stopped. “Kíli, we need a rest – we all do, I dare say we have been walking for two days straight.” He did not raise his voice, but his calm, friendly words reached their hardened guide easily.

 

“One and a half days, Anvari, but you are right.” Kíli took a swift look around, assessing where they were. “sixth well of the city guard is right over there, it should make for a good place to camp.”

 

He led them towards a broader stairwell leading down to a broader road, the pale light of the stone in his hand barely illuminating the hallway as he went, but for a moment Boromir almost believed he could see that stairwell brightly lit by stone lamps and dwarves hustling and bustling to and fro… it went as swiftly as it had come and rubbed his eyes. He had to be tired to start seeing things like that. Kíli led them to an empty quadratic room, with a simple well in one corner. There was nothing else inside the room – not even broken furniture or shattered stones, but it had only one entrance and would be easily defended if necessary.

 

Anvari had squatted down on the rim of the well, pulling something up. “The water looks clean, Kíli,” he reported, lifting an old stone bucket onto the side of the well. “at least we won’t have to ration water too strictly.”

 

That was good news indeed, until now they had been rationing their water strictly, as it would have to last them until they could reach the other side. But fresh water supplies meant a less thirsty night and full waterskins in the morning. Sam gathered up all waterskins and brought them over to the well. “I wouldn’t see the practical use of a stone bucket, Anvari,” he said, as the dwarf pulled up another load of water. “but at least it didn’t rot, if you get my meaning.” He peered down into the long, deep shaft of the well. “Are you sure there never was someone to fall in there? There was a well in Aldelving in the North Farthing where a travelling man drowned in – it poisoned the well.”

 

“I checked the water, Sam, it is clean,” Anvari said softly. “it must come from a fresh underground watercourse, as cold as it is.” He began to refill the waterskins for them and Sam carried them back to the others, camping down with Frodo in the far corner of the room. The rest of the group began to settle down as well.

 

“I will take first watch,” Elrohir said, sitting down in the doorway of the room, his sword at hand in case someone snuck up on him.

 

Boromir was glad for the rest, sitting down at the other side of the room, leaning his back against the wall, it was good to finally get some rest. Placing his swords over his knees, Boromir closed his eyes, allowing the gentle silence of Moria to lull him into sleep, and sleep came on soft feet embracing him to carry his dreams away

 

_He stood in a high hill under a strange, icy moon, snow was falling from the skies like a white veil, the glistening of the snowflakes in the silvery light a mockery of the horrors they enshrouded. An Easterling force was being pushed back from the fortress gates – the dwarves fighting like the wild wolves to not allow them inside their walls, while another force covered the retreat of those cut off through a postern. On the hill Boromir saw him – one single warrior, an old dwarf leading those who covered the retreat of his people. One warrior with a mighty blade – one strong enough that the Easterlings fell before him like leaves in a tempest, watching that battle unfold Boromir felt like had seen him before – seen such a battle before, but he could not name it. More enemies came but that one warrior stood – he sent half his men back to the Mountain, then some more – until he was left with very few fighters covering the retreat of the last of his people. Caught up in the duel with one Easterling warrior, he held out… until… Boromir wanted to scream, to warn him, because he knew the tactic the enemy was choosing, he had seen it before. But it was too late, the blade hit home, both adversaries falling in one lethal embrace._

_The two blond warriors still standing with the old one closed ranks, and standing over the corpse of the fallen, they made the remaining Easterlings pay a dear price for their success. Of those who still dared to storm that hill, none returned._

_With the first rays of dawn the silence came. To him standing on the high hill it came like a strange shadow finally silencing the bloody fields below. He wanted to walk, to look around but his feet were not moving. The mountain valley below was a field of death, black and red. Red with blood and black with corpses, Dwarrow and Men both claimed by the same grim reaper. Snow fell unfettered by pain and loss, uncaring for the many who had thrown themselves at the Easterling advance before their armies could overrun the Mountain, the many that had died to allow their fleeing friends an escape. Boromir's eyes strayed over the field slowly vanishing under a white blanket of snow. It was over... only it did not feel like it. He could see dwarves holding a formation around a foothill – the Easterlings had retracted their forces for now, they were regrouping._

_A number of dwarves had reached the two lone defenders, for the moment securing the way back to the postern. The older of the two turned to the leader of the freshly arrived fighters. “Kór, send word to Bofur – he is to close the siege gates. And I will need more of your people quickly – we will not leave any of our brethren to their mercy.”_

_Kór saluted, fist over his heart and headed off to carry out the order, while both defenders knelt down beside the fallen old dwarf. Boromir was not surprised to see their tears…_

“… I don’t know how long, Mr. Strider, I only noticed him hardly breathing when I came back from the well,” Sam’s nervous voice echoed from far away to Boromir, like he was hearing him from the bottom of a deep well. It was a feeling like he was trapped under a lot of water the surface only a vague light and the echo of sounds he could not reach. It vividly reminded him of nearly drowning off the Corsair’s island almost two years ago, only that here it felt more oppressive, like he could not reach the world at all.

 

“This is no sleep, it is a vision,” Aragorn’s voice was closer, but still far away, an echo ringing here and there, coming and going, unreachable if susceptible close. He felt a hand touch his forehead, the fleeting contact of the roughened fingers painful, like a sharp blade parting the veil of water and bringing up to the surface. “we must not wake him, waking someone from a vision dream can drive them mad… it is dangous.”Aragorn’s voice was suddenly much closer, and Boromir felt the cool air of the room pebble against his skin as he drew a ragged breath.

 

“Nonsense…” Boromir mumbled, his body slowly obeying him again. “Fari went from a vision straight into combat during a night raid… he was right as rain” He slowly managed to open his eyes, his hands were shaking and the blade had slipped off his knees. With the barrier between him in the world gone he became acutely aware of the room and that Aragorn and Sam were beside him. The white light of Gandalf’s staff cast a pale halo on him, so bright it almost hurt his eyes.

 

Aragorn released a relieved breath. “Thank the light you are with us again, Boromir, when Sam found you like this I was worried – especially as you said it was your brother that had the gift.” The Ranger studied Boromir thoughtfully, but unable to hide the worry in his gaze.

 

Rubbing his forehead Boromir tried to distance himself a little from the dream, it was hard, he felt like only moments before he had still been in the battle, feeling the cold wind and the snow – seeing the mighty dwarven warrior fall. Somehow deep in his heart he knew he’d never meet one like him again, and no matter how long ago it had happened, he felt honored he had been allowed to share those few last moments. “Usually he has, Aragorn, I only rarely have such dreams – or visions,” he leaned his head back against the stone, trying to answer the question in a useful manner. “it must be this place… it is getting to me. What I saw was the past, I think.” He had seen dwarves fighting the shadow – could it have been the second age, the fall of Eregion that he had witnessed? He had been thinking of those events a lot ever since they had left Ost-in-Edhil.

 

“No, it was not.” Boromir could see Kíli come up from where he had slept, sitting up against the wall, like to steady himself and at the same moment he felt a wave of heartbreaking sadness echo from his friend, a pain and grief that were barely held in check by discipline. The feelings were so intense they flooded over to him, thought he could clearly tell it was not his own feelings – they were, different, foreign and yet so familiar.

 

“You saw…?” he asked, wondering if their bond had somehow allowed the dream to be shared. And what did the dream mean to Kíli? What did it herald for him that Boromir was yet unable to decipher?

 

“What did you see?” Aragorn’s voice was calm, patient but firm; he looked at Boromir with the gaze of a healer wanting some answers, while a worried glance strayed to Kíli every now and then.

 

“I saw a battlefield in the snow,” Boromir said, trying to describe what he had seen, he could not place the landscape he had seen with any place he had ever seen before. But he had not seen much, not more than the hill in the snow and the mighty mountainside at his back. “dwarves defending a fortress against Easterling troops and Varigians. There definitely wee Varigians… they are the only ones to fight under a blood-red banner with a goat for coat of arms. They were trying to take in refugees into their fortress, but had become trapped… the battle was fierce. One old warrior covered their retreat into the fortress with only a few others… I never saw anyone fight like this, Aragorn. He took so many with him – they ran against him, again and again, and he would still stand. Like a rock unbroken and deathly, I… I would have hoped that he’d stand through it all. But one of his opponents… he used the embracing the blade trick on him, let himself be hurt to land the deadly hit, it takes courage to do that… and I think the old warrior could see that in his opponent. He grabbed him in death, I doubt he let go. Two others closed ranks over his body… two dwarven warriors, blond and armed with swords and they fought on where their comrade fell -  the Easterlings certainly will have rued having felled this one.” He looked at Aragorn, who had listened intently, did the Ranger know where all this had happened… was happening? “But… if it was not the past…”

 

“Erebor,” Kíli’s voice was rough, though he audibly fought to keep it level. The dwarf had drawn his legs in and leaned his arms on them, his head was bowed, so his long hair obscured his face. “you saw Erebor, Thorin…” his voice had sunken to a hush.

 

“Thorin?” Anvari scrambled to his feet, casting his blanket aside,  hastening over to Kíli. “what about father? Frérin? … Asutri?” He knelt down beside Kíli, and gently clasped his shoulders, making him look up. “Thorin… is he…?”

 

“Mahal called him home, Anvari,” Kíli had looked up to face Anvari, gently he grasped the younger dwarf’s shoulders, so their foreheads touched. The older dwarf’s voice was breaking, the words were nearly choked. “he went on the road from whence there is no return, leaving a mighty battle behind him. He defended the Mountain Home to the very last.”

 

A choked sob escaped Anvari’s throat as he held onto Kíli like a drowning man might on a branch from the shore, the young dwarf’s shoulders were shaking, thought he struggled to constrain the tears welling up in his eyes.

 

Again Boromir felt an almost drowning wave of pain from Kíli, and this time he had the distinct impression that he felt another echo inside it. Like there was a second voice echoing into their bond, one that carried a deep anguish, a keening that cut right into the heart. How Kíli, who must feel it much more intensely could keep his calm mien was beyond Boromir. How he found the discipline to not break down in tears. “Fíli is alive, Anvari, I can feel him, he is pained… grieved beyond compare, but he is not alone. Asutri is with him. I do not know about Frérin, but I believe he will make the Easterlings pay for slaying his brother.” The older dwarf hugged his young comrade, simply holding him close for a moment.

 

Aragorn bowed his head, compassion and sadness both warring in his eyes. “So Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain is dead…” he said softly. “May a Light guide him home to the halls of his fathers.”

 

 _Doom!_ The loud echo of a drum rang out into the silence, a noise sounding from all shafts and halls, ringing through the darkness. _Doom!_ It went again, rolling like a battle drum. Another drum answered the first call, ringing out from somewhere below at a frantic, angry rythim. Boromir saw Aragorn tense. “Orc drums,” the Ranger whispered, his hand sinking to his sword. “we better leave here swiftly.”

 

Pushing himself to his feet, Boromir found he could stand again; the weakness of the vision had passed. He picked up his sword sheathing it again. “Give them a moment’s time, Aragorn,” he said firmly, the drums were far off and if the Orcs found them in this maze right away was doubtful. If death had its season, so had grief.  “they just learned that their King died – that their father and… grandfather died, that their home is under siege…” he looked to the Halflings and saw Frodo’s face was streaked with tears too. He had said at the council that he had grown up in Erebor, he too would have known King Thorin.

 

“We don’t have the time, Boromir – if the Orcs find us…” Aragorn met his gaze firmly, it was the first time they clashed like this and neither of them was willing to give ground.

 

“They won’t,” Kíli had stood up, pulling Anvari to his feet as well. The older dwarf’s face was stern, composed, even as his eyes still shone suspiciously. “not if we are swift and lead them on a chase that they cannot win – so they can go home and whine their woes to Durin’s Bane.” The dwarf’s voice was deep and grim as he grabbed his sword, flipping the belt over his head, so the blade hung against his back again. He turned to look at Anvari, who had been slower to pick up his weapons. “Dranákh drû beltur, côr drukhvár.” He said a little more softly, meant only for the dwarf.

 

The phrase sounded strangely familiar to Boromir, like something he had heard before – like something he knew. _Duty first, grief later_ he could not tell how he knew, but he was sure that it was what Kíli had told Anvari.

 

“Kíli…” Boromir began but his words were cut off by a curt gesture. “We do not have the time, Boromir,” the dwarf said, and while his voice was still husky, it was strong again. “Thorin would not expect us to wallow in grief but to pick ourselves up and march on. So we better get moving. Elrohir – sneak ahead and tell me if you can smell them from any direction – Anvari, you are with Frodo and Sam, they will need your aid – Aelin, can you take rear, they won’t sneak up on you easily.”

 

There was a change Boromir saw happen in their comrade. In this moment Kíli shed the role of the companion, the warrior and the leader, the dwarven Prince came into foreground, not brought out by pride but by sheer necessity. Another echo of the drum became audible and Elrohir, standing in the doorway looked at them. “They come from two directions, Kíli, there and there,” he pointed to their right and straight ahead.

 

“Then we go elsewhere,” Kíli headed out, to take point as he passed Boromir he gently grasped his arm. “Thank you.”

 

“For what?” Boromir could not bite back the startled question. How the dwarf was able to push past the grief, past the pain was admirable, Boromir knew had he learned of a similar fate befalling his father, he’d have hardly been so steady.

 

“For allowing me to share your vision, I knew this hour was coming… but knowing the truth is always preferable to wondering how it came to pass.” Kíli said, before he headed out and into darkness ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	11. It comes from the deeps

Idrakhán made a face as he strode through the long stone hall, ignoring the dwarven markings on the walls and the high ceiling above; this place stank, it reeked of death, Orcs and centuries of neglect. “I have known Orc barracks to smell cleaner,” he grumbled, not slowing his pace, the shrieks of Orcs echoed in the distance as his orders were relayed swiftly. “of all the nasty, dirty dens in these mountains they had to hide here.”

 

Tani chuckled, unfazed by the smell of Ors and dirt. “Are you absolutely sure that they went here? Moria has an evil reputation, even amongst us, and I wonder why they should choose this way.”

 

“Because they had little choice,” Idrakhán stopped at the top of a flight of stairs, looking around. “they knew we were behind them, and there were more Orcs than they could handle all around, with the passes frozen… where else could they have gone with all their other paths blocked? And a Warg patrol picked up their tracks by the Watcher’s lake, they must have known a way to use the main gate.” His eyes went to the exits of the hall, dark holes leading into the wide darkness of the mines. “Now we must flush them out – Khamûl says the Eastern Gate will be barred, so all we have to do is drive them there – chase the prey into the hunter’s trap.”

 

“And how do we do that?” Tani shook his head, in spite of being of lower rank than Idrakhán he had no fears to speak his mind, his long service gave him a gravitas that had made many a younger soldier listen. “These are no ordinary mines, Idra, they stretch for miles and miles; you could fit Cymarkhán, Tysora and Port-of-Storms into this place and still have room to fit some villages in between. We don’t have the army to sweep this place, no matter how many more Mountain Orcs Bolg can scrounge up. And you are already overstraining your ability to control them – continue like this and you’ll be dead before the month is out.”

 

Idrakhán had the decency to look slightly chastised, inkling his head to acknowledge the truth. “You are right of course, I cannot control the myriads of Orcs lurking beneath our feet, Tani – and I don’t have to. I do not need a search or sweep – I need a chase, a hunt.” From deep below drums picked up, deep rolling Orc drums, first there was only one, then another answered, a third followed soon until they rang in a frantic rhythm. “Bolg has orders to keep up with the drums, even if the Orcs won’t follow them – our adversaries will hear them as well, and they will run, hasten towards escape – towards the other exit of this dark chasm…” Now he smiled, his eyes shining. “Fear is a weapon too, Tani, if you know how to utilize it.”

 

“What if they do not lose their nerves?” Tani questioned, more out of habit than true doubts. “what if they decide to head towards another exit? This place has more secret passages than the Emperor’s harem and that’s saying something.”

 

Idrakhán laughed. “No, Tani, their choices are made for them – they cannot head up towards the watchtowers, because they would die in the ice encasing the peaks, they cannot go back from whence they came, so all that remains is the Eastern Gate. Lost and alone in the deep darkness of Moria they will finally come face to face with their fear of the Shadow – and the Dimril Gate will be their beacon of hope, the light to guide them out…”

 

“And the surest way to break an enemy is to break him through his highest hopes,” Tani quoted Tarlamaine, the Great Strategist, “I only wonder if such plans were ever made for caverns like this.”

 

They descended down the stairs and then followed a path through high halls, not venturing into the sidetunnels, where they would have higher chances of getting lost. “I hope that things will go well on the Eastern End,” Idrakhán said. “Khamûl said he had received word from Dol Guldur, the Northern campaign is not going as well as it should. He may have to go there and hear what is keeping them from conquering one fortress.”

 

“The defender’s I’d venture to guess,” Tani shrugged. “the Northern campaign is a mistake, Idra – it binds too many of our Elite forces trying to take some Mountain kingdom that could be dealt with once we have Gondor and Rohan under control. And don’t get me started on the campaign in Mirkwood – we should wait there too, and send in the Firelands legions to scorch the place, once we have them freed up.”

 

“Barad-dûr deemed both campaigns necessary to prevent an alliance of forces between them and Gondor, by keeping them apart we keep them weak.” He stopped, another set of drums, swift rattling drums sounded from deep below. “I’ll be – Bolg must have really rallied his ugly brethren – maybe things will go according to the plan for a change.” Without further ado he strode on deeper into the halls.

 

“No plan survives enemy contact,” Tani said softly to himself. “and not everyone fears the darkness, Idra, fear is a weapon that can be conquered.”

 

TRB

 

Kíli’s raised fist warned his companions to stop and duck into the shadows, Boromir saw how the dwarf crouched down at the very edge of a narrow ledge, one hand resting on the sharp side of the stone, the other on the wall as he peered down. Keeping to the shadows, and ducking low, Boromir reached him, seeing Frodo and Sam pressed into a niche in the wall, while the Elves stood as unmoving as statues, hardly visible in their grey cloaks. In the tunnel below them the shadows themselves seemed to move, squinting Boromir realized it was not shadows, but a teeming mass of Orcs scaling the very walls swiftly. There must be hundreds of them, but he could not discern any structure of units or leaders though. “How many are there?” he asked in a hush.

 

“Too many,” Kíli replied as softly. “they are pouring up from the deeps – which means we need to go down if we want to evade them.”

 

Boromir nodded quietly, it was the second day of their flight through the dark and while they all were exhausted and had not slept in too many hours, they had not yet been discovered. Time and again Kíli had found them ways past the Orc troops, sometimes they had been so close to their enemies that they had been able to hear them converse and curse, but they had gone undiscovered. Kili ducked even lower as he moved along the ledge towards a seemingly dead end. Boromir had already given up to believe that any wall in this city was just a wall – there were hidden doors and secret passages everywhere, the secrets of the dwarven people had long outlasted the Orc occupation.

 

Kíli’s fingers traced the stone of the wall, strong hands finding hidden markings with utter surety, and without so much as noise a door opened in the wall, revealing a well of stairs leading down. They headed down into the darkness, their steps the only sound muffled by the close walls of the stairwell. They went deeper and deeper, after about one thousand stairs Boromir gave up the count. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they heard noises in a distance. Not the running feet of Orcs, but the clapping of whips and hissed commands along with the clanking of chains. Pressed against the hard stone wall, Kíli peered around a corner, then gesturing them to head across the hallway and into another side-tunnel. Casting a glance to the side as he followed the silent command to cross the tunnel, Boromir saw nothing more than a light at the end of the corridor from whence the sounds came.

 

When he arrived in the shadows of the side tunnel he saw Aragorn, squatted down in the shadow beside the corner, shoulders tense as his eyes were watchfully directed at the bright end of the corridor. “Trouble?” Boromir asked softly.

 

The Ranger shook his head. “No, but we have to be careful…” his voice was low and pressed; he disliked being here, that much was clear. He then turned towards Kíli. “We cannot go through the hall of cages – they will have guards there.”

 

“Agreed,” Kíli nodded curtly. “we take the long way round.” With that he took point again, guiding them into a narrow tunnel that led them towards a stairwell rising again. For a moment Boromir hoped that they had reached their way up quickly, but these stairs only led to a small ledge high above the halls of this level. He did not know what they had been built for, but there were apparently no Orcs patrolling them.

 

At first the ledge ran parallel to a long corridor, they had to jump twice when other hallways cut into the corridor, but eventually they came into a huge dark hall. Kíli warned them to be extra quiet as they sneaked along the narrow band of stone running high above the floor of the hall. Walking before him, Boromir saw Aragorn tense even more, the Ranger’s hand sinking onto the hilt of his sword. Lightly Boromir grabbed his arm. “Steady,” he did not dare whisper more until they were at the end of the hall where their voices would echo less. “what is it, Aragorn?”

 

The Ranger shook his head. “I’ve been here before.” It was not more that he said, but it made Boromir peer down into the dark hall below, he could not see much beyond rectangular shapes in the darkness and smell a rancid stench that permeated the entire room. He was grateful when the ledge brought them into the next corridor. The further they sneaked the easier it got, as the noise increased, hammers and the hissing of hot metal rang in the halls, so their hasty steps were hardly audible at all. Eventually they came towards a hall that was alight with fires, though the ledge they were on was still in shadow. Carefully they kept to the shadows hiding them as they crossed the stone band.

 

Down below they saw a forge – a huge smithy, with hundreds of people working. Not people, Boromir realized but dwarves, chained to the floor and under the whip of the Orcs, who drove them to work swiftly. Remembering what he had heard the dying dwarf say in the Mountains, Boromir wondered how many… how many of the dwarves had been enslaved by the Orcs? His hands curled into fists, and he made himself not look down any longer, he knew if he did, he could not bear the thought. How could anyone sit by and watch people enslaved under the whip of the Orcs? Beside him Aragorn was pale as a ghost as they crossed that hall. Both of them were relieved when they finally reached another dark tunnel and the hall of the forges fell behind.

 

“In here,” Kíli pointed to a shaft above them, lifting up Frodo so he could reach the dark hole. Elrohir helped Sam, climbing up next. Kíli turned to the Ranger. “Aragorn – are you alright?”

 

“Aye, just memories,” Aragorn told him, his eyes went to the shaft the others were vanishing into. “is this part of the airshafts we used back then?”

 

“That they are, they should bring us towards the Eastern side where we can access one of the great stairs again.” Kíli was the last to enter the low ceilinged shaft, they had to crawl now, for the shaft was too low for anyone to stand. Through the rough iron grates that formed the bottom of the shaft they could see halls and tunnels below, see Orcs hasten around and entire Orc troops marching, now and then they heard the drums at a distance, becoming louder and fading again, but after hours and hours of hearing them, the horror the drums had created wore off on them.

 

No one could say how many hours they had crawled through the low ceilinged shafts and climbed over small stairs and through tunnels so narrow they hardly fit through. Eventually they came to another shaft – as dark and cold as many others they had crossed before when Kíli stopped. “Here we have to make a decision,” he said softly. “we either can climb the shaft down and enter the waterworks – we would have to swim the last miles to reach the exit, or we climb the stairs upwards to the heart of the city and try to reach the gates.”

 

“I think, Kíli, that this is a choice we should make when we have rested a little,” Elrohir said, he and Aelin had been carrying the Hobbits for parts of the journey, when sheer exhaustion caught up with them.

 

“I agree,” Gandalf said gravelly. “my heart warns me against both ways – they are both dark, yet I doubt there is any place that is not dark in these mines.”

 

Elrohir set down Frodo in a corner of the room, there was little enough comfort in this place, but both Hobbits were so tired, they fell asleep within moments. Anvari, who had sat down beside them, closed his eyes as well, seeking to sleep the few hours they might have to rest. The elf did not need to look at his comrades to know that they were as exhausted, and that the long dark began to get to them. He approached Kíli. “Sam cannot swim, Kíli and Frodo is so exhausted, I doubt he could swim six miles straight.” He said in a hush. “And if our experiences in Mt. Gundabad are of any worth, we might run into a deep watcher in the waterworks – you will remember how that encounter ended the last time.”

 

Kíli looked up the elven warrior. “I remember well – it’s how our friendship began, Elrohir. But neither way is safe anymore and our choices are limited when it comes to leaving the deeps. We could be trapped on either path, maybe after a few hours of rest we will see more clearly. I’ll take first watch.”

 

The night passed in silence – none of them knew if it was truly night outside, but in their exhausted minds it was night. Boromir noticed that Kíli hardly slept, sitting cross-legged on the ground, both hands leaning against the stone he could have been a statue – a statue with watchful eyes. “You should rest,” he observed, when his own watch hour came and he found Kíli still awake.

 

The dwarf looked at him, his eyes reflecting the soft light of the white crystal to shine in the dark. “I could not sleep anyway, Boromir, so why not leave the others the rest they will need so desperately?”

 

“And what about your rest?” Boromir asked back, sitting down opposite of the dwarf. “You too will need your strength and your mind sharp, we are relying heavily on your knowledge of Dwarrowdelf.”

 

There was a strange expression in Kíli’s mien when he answered. “I am a dwarrow, Boromir, a stone-creature, as long as I am in the deep stone, the roots of the Earth will lend me all the strength I might need. And even if I wanted to… I could not sleep.”

 

Boromir understood all too well, having only just learned that his father had fallen in battle, Kíli’s mind must be restless. He could not imagine how he would react if he had heard such news from Minas Tirith. “How… what will happen to you people now? Will you have to return home, once we are out of the deeps?” With their King fallen his son would be needed at home – Boromir knew he’d feel that way if their roles were reversed.

 

To his surprise Kíli shook his head. “Fíli, my brother, will lead them, now that Thorin… that Thorin has fallen. Anvari and I will stay with you – we committed to this war and we knew what it might mean and Erebor is in the best possible hands.”

 

There was a quiet strength in those words, an unshakeable trust in his people and his brother that Boromir could only admire. He had often worried about Minas Tirith, about his father and brother during the long journey, and he still wondered how they were faring. He felt Kíli’s eyes on him and also felt a gentle brush of emotions, of understanding in the bond. It was a strange feeling still, but somehow sharing the burdens made them easier to bear.

 

TRB

 

“I think we should go up,” Gandalf stood leaning on his staff, his eyes peering down the stairs leading deeper. “my heart warns me not to enter the greater deeps, Kíli. If we hurry we could be out of the mines before the day is over.”

 

“Aye,” the dwarf did not argue with the wizard. “but if we go up we need to cross some large halls – I will try to evade them as long as I can, to give the Orcs no chance to catch us.”

 

In that very moment a deep growl rose from the deep shaft, echoing up, enhanced a thousand fold by the walls. All color drained from Kíli’s face. “He’s coming… up the stairs, all of you, run!”

 

Seeing Elrohir grab Sam, Boromir did the same with Frodo, the Halflings could not sprint as fast as the big folk could, carrying them was the best way to increase their speed. They raced up the stairs, while the fierce growl rose behind them, and a gust of hot air brushed against them, no matter how fast they climbed. A stone slipped under Boromir’s boots nearly making him fall, but he found his balance quickly and hastened on. By the time they reached the upper end of the stairs his breath was flying in hard, ragged gasps. They entered a smaller tunnel again and heard behind them an angry howl. Kíli did not stop to give them any break, he led them through a maze of tunnels, the darkness enveloping them again, and the fear ebbed off a little.

 

Boromir already hoped they had shaken off whatever was chasing them, when he felt something cold ahead of them – a fear much more familiar than the sheer horror that was behind them. “Nazgûl,” he hissed when he sensed the familiar icy darkness brush against him, the icy shiver that went through his very soul. Strangely, right now he felt less of that – like there was a part of him that the black horror could not reach.

 

Aragorn had sped up his step and reached Kíli. “Where is the next big hall?” the Ranger asked, hurriedly, his eyes checking the tunnels around them.

 

“Less than a quartermile ahead, the Hall of Pillars,” Kíli replied in reflex. “but why? What does it help us?”

 

“It will help us, if the darkness is still the darkness,” Aragorn replied. “we only need to enter the hall shortly and then get out.”

 

Boromir looked at the Ranger and he had a vague guess what kind of game Aragorn was playing here – Rangers, they were amongst the craziest warriors he knew, and when pushed into a corner their plans became downright crazy, but he had to admit, they usually worked. He cast a glance to the elves, Elrohir was with him, still having a firm hold on Sam, while Aelin had rearguard, the Noldor’s face an icy mask that betrayed nothing but grim determination.

 

They ran on, Kíli followed Aragorn’s request and after only a quartermile they came out of the tunnel and into a huge hall – one of the largest Boromir had ever seen – carried by no less than fifty high pillars to support a complex vaulted ceiling the hall was veritable wood of stone pillars. Even in the shadow of the darkened hall Boromir could sense one shadow above the others – the icy echo of a Nazgûl’s presence, he tensed, hand falling to his sword.

 

Behind them the growl rose again and they could hear a swirl in the air and a dry, deathly heat rushed against their backs. “Out of here!” Aragorn snapped, they turned following Kíli who led them up a stairwell towards a tunnel entrance higher up. Running up the stairs they saw a huge creature – a form of shadow and flame land in the hall, before its fire the black figure of Nazgûl appeared like a walking shadow unto itself. A fell voice cut through the hall’s silence, speaking in a language that pained their ears and made the hair on their necks stand on end.

 

The Balrog rose to its full height and roared at the Nazgûl, a fiery whip appearing in his claws as he shouted something at the Ringwraith.

 

“Hurry,” Kíli whispered as they entered the tunnel, leading away from the hall of pillars. “who knows how long their argument is going to last?”

 

Aragorn’s smile was grim. “Let’s hope it takes them a while.” Behind them both voices rose in shrieks and growls that were painful to hear for all of them. They heard the hissing of a whip in the air, and none of them had the wish to linger too close to the hall any longer. Running on, they had to cross another hallway, went through a new stairwell and finally came out in yet another large hall – in the light of Gandalf’s staff they saw a chasm ahead, a huge, deep ravine cutting down into the very bowels of the Earth spanned only by one narrow ledge.

 

The wizard pointed at the bridge. “There, that is our way out.” They ran towards the chasm, the bridge was nothing more than the narrowest stone arch that just one man could walk on, if he had the balance not to fall. Elrohir and the Halflings went first, followed by Anvari, Aragorn was just turning to follow them across when the halls on the side of the walls shone in bright, eerie flames, fires were eating their way along the pillars, like they were liquid spreading to all sides. And a huge shadow appeared at the other end of the hall. “Durin’s Bane…”

 

Disregarding the deeps or the dangerously small bridge, they raced across to reach the other side. Gandalf and Aelin were the last to make it. On the other side the Balrog roared, raising his might wings, flattering up, his whip almost reaching them. Aelin drew his sword. “He cannot follow us far – the tunnels are too low,” he said grimly, if there was any fear in the Noldor it was hidden beneath an icy mask.

 

“No,” Gandalf’s voice was stern and firm. “he would await us outside in the valley. This is not a battle that can be delayed any longer.” His eyes held the elf’s for a moment, before he turned to the others. “Hurry, you cannot help me.”

 

“Mithrandir,” Elrohir protested, the elf had come back to stand beside Aelin, sword in hand, he was pale, but his jaw was set firmly, and there was no doubt he too was determined to fight.

 

“Fools of elves,” the wizard’s eyes furrowed. “there is no time, nor can you help me – run, help the others escape. Aragorn – lead them on. Do not look back.” With these words the old man drew his sword and approached the bridge again, his staff shining brightly.  “Run!” he shouted at them.

 

They ran – through the tunnels behind the chasm and up a short well of stairs, it was not far to the gate but with every step they took they sense a presence, a clash of powers building behind them – like a tempest roaring fiercely. The stones creaked and cracked, like even the old bones of Arda were straining against the storm of power unleashed in their deeps. A bright light shone ahead of them – an open doorway leading outside, they ran up the tunnel, stones began to fall from the ceiling, the ground shook, a long rift formed in the wall beside them, as something clashed behind – with the noise of thunder and the roaring fierceness of a storm, so loud that it rendered their ears dead for some moments. Only when they were nearing the gate and their hearing began to restore they heard it – a deep, angry cracking, louder even than the howls of the Balrog and clash of steel behind them. “Out of here!” Kíli shouted, pushing Frodo forward.

 

They raced through the gateway and outside into the dim light of the winter sun, and with a horrible crack the tunnels behind them collapsed, rubble rolling downhill left and right, as parts of the Mountainside caved in and tons of rock buried monster and wizard in the deeps of the world. When ground stopped shaking and the dust settled nothing was left of the famous Eastern gate of Moria but broken pile of rubble and huge rock slabs covering what had been the gateway into the deeps for more than three ages.

 

Horrified Frodo stared at the place where only minutes before the doorway had been. “Gandalf…” he whispered. “could… could he still be alive?”

 

Kíli approached the fresh cave in, not touching the stones. “I… I doubt it, Frodo,” he said, his voice toneless. “He must have planned it, he buried himself and the monster under the stones, making the deeps their grave. May his soul find the way home.” Turning around, the dwarf’s eyes went over the landscape surrounding them – dark stone marred the hills left and ride, and the valley ahead was even dimmer in the grey light of the afternoon. Deep down in the vale the waters of Mirrormere were a cold glistening spot in the middle of the winter’s sullen colors.

 

A chill wind rose and enveloped them, sending fresh shivers through their skin. “We’d better leave,” Aragorn said, helping Sam to his feet. “we should be far from here before the night comes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> I know this chapter feels a bit slow, and I may face a posting slowdown over the weekend, as I am not feeling that well right now. *hugs to you all*


	12. Near Caras Galadhron

The last rays of sunset painted the dark winter clouds red when the river came in sight. Elrohir was glad that they finally were out of the Mountains and away from the constant danger of pursuit. While the elf was less exhausted than his comrades, he felt the weight of the darkness under the Mountains much like they did. Even in the midst of winter the soft whispers of the elven woods of Lothlorien were a welcome change to the dark journey that lay behind them.

 

Nimrodel river shone coldly in the rapidly darkening evening. “We should cross the river before nightfall and rest on the other side,” Aragorn said, the Ranger had scouted ahead finding the safest possible path for the exhausted group. “we will not reach the gates tonight, but we should rest safely in the reach of Lorien’s borders.”

 

“True,” Elrohir’s eyes strayed to the other shore. “let us be swift, who knows how many hunters are already behind us?”

 

They led the others down to one of the few places were Nimrodel could be crossed safely. When he turned to ask Aelin to aid Sam in the crossing, Elrohir saw Boromir’s frown as he looked at the other shore. “Is there no other path for us?” the Gondorian asked quietly. “We have come through enough peril and darkness to not add another danger to our path.”

 

“There is no danger inside these lands but the dangers you bring yourself, Boromir,” Aragorn had turned to the other Man, his voice a little tense as he spoke. “we will find aid and safety there, and the rest we will sorely need. I doubt you know a better path for us.”

 

“I’d prefer the dangers of the wilds,” Boromir said sharply. “and if I had to cross the river swimming and hide on the eastern shore. My heart warns me to journey closer to the land yonder.”

 

Elrohir left Frodo to Anvari’s aid and walked up to both men before the discussion could escalate. “I will not lie to you, Boromir, this land is dangerous,” he said, seeing Aragorn’s eyes widen in shock. He cast a small wink at Estel, hoping that his young foster-brother would understand that not every Man had grown up inside the elven lands and felt naturally at home and safe there, but he kept his main focus on Boromir. “because my people are dangerous, as yours are dangerous or as Kíli’s people are dangerous – we are what we are and what we have to be to oppose the Shadow. And while few Men have ever walked in the sight of Lothlorien’s trees there has never been a feud or enmity between our peoples.”

 

Boromir’s stance relaxed slightly, his powerful shoulders losing the tense rigidity they had shown before as the warrior exhaled slowly. “My mind knows your words true, Elrohir, still… something warns me about this land of your people.” He said, shouldering his pack anew, before following the others towards the crossing of the river.

 

Elrohir was the last to follow the group across to the other shore, where Aragorn was leading them uphill into the woods. Knowing that Aragorn was well familiar with the paths surrounding Lorien’s borders, Elrohir kept his attention on their back, if something was indeed following them, they better were doubly careful, though he had his doubts that any evil creature would dare to venture that close to the borders of the elven realm.

 

“There is little hope of hiding in these woods,” Kíli said to Aragorn after they had walked nearly half a mile. “we either make camp here, or we might as well try and hide in the trees.”

 

“You would find the trees better guarded than you might like, dwarf,” a voice answered from the darkness above. “and you are breathing so loudly we could have shot you in the darkness.”

 

Elrohir saw Kíli’s hand fall to the hilt of his sword, pulling it in one fluid move. “Show your face, or are you afraid to come out of the shadows?” the dwarf drawled, his entire stance shifting, he was ready to fight.

 

Swiftly Elrohir caught up to the head of the group, where several elves emerged from the trees surrounding the group. “Haldir,” he greeted their leader. “I had not hoped to meet a patrol on the outer borders that swiftly.”

 

He could see that his presence startled the Galadhrim, for his stance changed slightly and he inclined his head in lieu of a bow. “Prince Elrohir, while whispers reached us that you were headed south with a number of companions, your father’s messengers passed by Lorien on their way from Dimrill stairs, how many are you?”

 

“We are eight,” Elrohir kept his gaze fixed on Haldir levelly. “Aragorn you know as you know me and my companion Aelin, with us are Frodo and Sam, two Halflings from Eriador, Boromir of Gondor is with us too and Kíli and Anvari of the kingdom of Erebor.”

 

“Two dwarves?” Haldir cast a new glance on the group. “That is ill tidings truly, Elrohir, for I cannot allow them to pass our borders. We have not had dealings with the dwarves since they woke great evil in the Mountains, and many of us have longer even avoided their kind.”

 

“Kíli is a friend of mine, Haldir, as was his father, King Thorin, we have fought side by side in battle – I trust them with my life, and they will accompany me. Send word to my esteemed grandmother if you have to, but do not tarry too long.” Elrohir purposefully spoke a little more sternly, reminding Haldir of their respective ranks.

 

“I will permit you to camp at our watchpost tonight, Elrohir,” Haldir decided eventually. “but you will have to watch the dwarves and answer for them – I doubt they will be permitted to enter our lands freely.”

 

The elves led them a little further into the woods and up onto a _talan_ a wooden platform high up in one of the trees. “You may rest here,” Haldir told them, “and sleep free of fears from your pursuers, these borders are guarded.”

 

Most of the companions were so exhausted that they quickly wrapped themselves into their cloaks and blanket and fell asleep. Only now Elrohir realized that he too was tired – exhausted beyond what he was used to, ever since leaving the ruined city of Ost-in-Edhil he had felt a drain, a tiredness that he did not know. Now that he had come out of the shadow of Moria, he felt it even more. Sitting down with his back against the tree, he relaxed a little, his eyes searching for Aelin who had chosen to sit opposite of him. “Do you feel it too?” he asked softly in elven. “Like a great exhaustion slowly reaching for you?”

 

“Aye,” Aelin replied honestly. “I felt the shadow’s presence in Ost-in-Edhil and again in the deeps, but I have walked under the Shadow before and escaped from it again.” There was a worried expression in his miend. “And you feel it stronger than you should, you never reacted like that to Carn Dum, during the war.”

 

“Maybe this shadow is deeper – stronger,” Elrohir replied, pushing a few streaks of his dark hair away from his face. “it feels like a dark mist slowly encroaching on me… tiring me.” He sighed. “Maybe it is just the sadness I feel. Learning of Thorin’s death… I wish I could have been there.” It was the first time he had the chance to think of Thorin who had fallen in battle defending the Mountain and Elrohir was deeply saddened by his passing, he knew he’d miss his friend that the world had become a little darker, lessened by his loss. His eyes strayed to Kíli and Anvari who had chosen a place at a safe distance from the edge of the _talan._ Anvari lay on the wooden grounds, asleep, or maybe pretending to sleep, Kíli had camped down beside him, only that his eyes were open, staring at the barren branches and dark skies above. What must they feel – having lost their father and grandfather? Elrohir knew how close Kíli, Fíli and Thorin had been, there had been a time when he would have sworn that losing one might result in losing all three.

 

As if Kíli had felt his glance he looked at him, sitting up again. “You should rest, Elrohir,” he said gently. “Ost-in-Edhil took more out of you than any of us likes to see.”

 

There was a strength in Kíli that reminded Elrohir vividly of Thorin – the strength to leave the mourning aside and take care of the living. He had seen Thorin do that when Dís had been murdered, when the darkness reached for his family. “How… How can you live with it?” he asked, without realizing that the question came out loud. “with knowing that you will lose them all? That all you know, all you love will die?” He knew that he had to accept the pain of losing friends, because that was part of loving this world. But Thorin… knowing his friend had died in a mighty battle thousands of leagues from here left him wishing for a way to express the pain inside him other than in words.

 

Kíli pushed himself up and squatted down opposite of Elrohir, clasping his shoulders with his strong hands. “In a world far away, we will meet again,” he said, his deep voice gentle. “we all received a handful of sand when our journey began and when the last grain runs out it is our time to leave this world. If we were not permitted to die this world would be a trap – it is a burden your people bear having to last on these shores forever.”

 

“You’ve become wise, Kíli,” Elrohir returned the gesture, clasping the dwarf’s shoulders in the same way. “what happened to that youthful dwarf who would tell Elladan and I the most lurid Elven jokes he could think of and who complained when my brother suggested he read a book while he was recovering?”

 

There was a small if sad smile on Kíli’s face. “He didn’t leave, he just had to grow up. I am sorry, Elrohir, that our friendship brought you so much sadness. Maybe there is a reason to our elders warning us against befriending the elf-kind after all, not for our sakes, but yours. Maybe you should let it go, so when Anvari and I fall…”

 

“When…? Don’t you mean ‘if’?” Elrohir did not let go of his friend. “I know that our passing through Khazad-dûm was dark and fraught with danger, but do not let the darkness give you premonitions of doom, Kíli. We may have a long road ahead of us, but our doom has not yet been written.”

 

“Even if it is not on this journey…” Kíli began but Elrohir cut him off.

 

“I will not hear it, Kíli, we are friends and I will not give up on that friendship because I may have to mourn your passing one day. I’d rather have those years of friendship than never having known what such friendship means.” As he spoke Elrohir realized the full truth in his own words, much as it hurt to know of Thorin’s passing, much as he wished he could have been there… he’d never regret those years of friendship. “And when the time comes I’ll find you again in that world far away.”

 

A movement startled them as Haldir came hastening up onto the talan, his bow in hand. “Be watchful,” he said in a soft voice. “Yrch are close by.”

 

“Orcs,” Kíli leaned back and grabbed his bow. “are they close?”

 

“Close enough,” Haldir said. “a large troop came downriver during the dark hours, sniffing at your trail, searching here and there. Rumil believes he saw a winged creature high up in the skies shortly after, but it vanished quickly East. Dark things are haunting your trail.”

 

Elrohir too had gone for his weapons. “Shall I wake the others?” he asked, knowing that might be wiser to move on swiftly.

 

“No,” Haldir declined his question with a gesture of his hand. “the danger seems past for the moment, though I saw another creature, like a small Orc sneak close to our trees before vanishing into the waters of Nimrodel.”

 

The night passed in silence after that, both Kíli and Elrohir slept some time, always ready to fight, but nothing came close to the tree. When the pale dawn rose behind the trees Haldir and his patrol returned, and it was time to continue the march.

 

For a few hours they had walked in silence until they crossed the river Celebrant. Elrohir was glad to see the icy river and even gladded to know they were on the other side. For this shore of the Celebrant lay within the defenses of Lothlorien and was regularly patrolled, they had reached safe grounds. His entire relief evaporated though, when Haldir turned to the group. “We have reached the Naith of Lothlorien, few strangers indeed have seen our land and the dwarves cannot be permitted to walk freely further. They will be blindfolded and disarmed, for we will not allow them to spy on our lands.” He announced.

 

Elrohir saw Kíli’s hand go to his weapon. “If you think I will give myself as a captive into your hands, you are wrong,” he growled, eying Haldir with icy assessment of a warrior checking the enemy for weaknesses. “Anvari and I are not servants of the Enemy nor did we ever harm your people.”

 

“Your very house woke the terror of the Mountains, and your family enraged the Orcs of the Mountains into a fighting frenzy that they even dared to attack our borders when your people tried to reclaim the dark deeps.”  Haldir said coolly. “Many would call that enough harm, and even if I did not doubt you, it is our law, and it must be obeyed.”

 

“Haldir!” Elrohir stepped forward, angered that the elf would show his dislike and distrust in such a manner. “I told you that I trust them and that I will answer for them if that satisfies your laws. I know Lorien, never forget that, and with my word you are not obliged to carry out that law.”

 

“Do not try, Elrohir, there is no talking with that kind,” Kíli said, waving Anvari over to him. “it is the same elves that chased wounded dwarves off their borders with arrows – arrows they might have used more effectively on the Orcs they claim to hate. Anvari and I will go back and follow the river south until we are past the borders of this land, we’ll meet you again there.”

 

“I cannot let you leave, you have come this far you must be brought for our Lord and Lady who will decide your fate, whether you will be allowed to leave or will be held.” Haldir’s hand was on his bow.

 

Kíli drew his sword. “So taking us captive it is? I’d like to see you try – you will lose half your patrol before we die and more if you try to take us alive.”

 

“Haldir, stay your hand!” Elrohir snapped the order at the Elf, placing himself in a clear line between the dwarves and the patrol. He saw the order was at least partially obeyed, not one of the archers was ready to knock an arrow, maybe only for the fear that some of those arrows would kill Elrohir too.

 

Slowly Elrohir turned around to Kíli, in this moment with the blade in hand, tense and with eyes distrustfully darting between the elves, he reminded him vividly of Thorin and of the first time Thorin had come to Rivendell. The proud dwarven Prince had not trusted the Elves either, a legacy that displayed very clearly in Kíli “They will not harm you or Anvari,” he said calmly. “I cannot make them disregard their orders, as they will not trust me either. But they will not harm you.”

 

“I have been on the wrong side of such a law before, Elrohir, in Mirkwood – captured and brought before King who deemed he had to ‘judge’ us, you know how it ended.” Kíli said. “And I will not allow Anvari into their hands,”

 

“This is not Mirkwood, Kíli,” Elrohir all too well remembered what had transpired in the dark dungeons of Mirkwood and the horror he had felt at the time, when he realized what was happening there. Unable to help his friend he had only caught a glimpse on what Kíli had been put through. “these Elves are of my people, you walk into a realm ruled by my grandmother – not the halls of Thranduil.” He knew that dwarves put great trust into bloodlines, and he hoped that his words would reach the dwarf.

 

And he was right. Kíli slowly lowered his weapon, then sheathed it. “I had never reason to distrust your people, Elrohir,” he said slowly. “you have saved my life twice and you helped saving Anvari. I do trust you – if you say these elves are your people, I will trust them.”

 

“What if we all were going blindfolded and bound?” Aragorn asked from the side, “We belong together, we should share the same fate.”

 

Kíli looked to him only shortly. “No, I doubt that would help any of us at all.” He took off the leather belt with his sword and handed it to Boromir, along with the black bow. “Keep them until I am released, please.” He said before stepping forward to the patrol.

 

Anvari handed his own weapons to Elrohir and followed Kíli. “We will not allow ourselves to be separated, blindfolded or not,” he told them in his quiet voice.

 

When both dwarves had been blindfolded, Elrohir waved the patrol away from them. “We will guide our comrades, while you may obey the strictest law of your land, they are not your captives.” He said firmly. It would ease tensions for their friends if they were in the middle of the group, knowing themselves a little safer. Elrohir would have asked Aelin to guide Anvari, but Boromir had already joined Kíli, so Elrohir went with Anvari.

 

TRB

 

A new sunset was already upon them when the road led them down the sloping hills of Lothlorien and into the city of Caras Galadhron itself. Elrohir for his part was glad the journey was as good as over, it had gone without further argument, though there had been little words between them and the patrol ever since. While he knew that the bringing of two dwarves into the city was something that broke more laws and customs than many could count, he also felt that it could have gone easier and with less tensions. Maybe he was too much a son of Rivendell where the elves still had contact with the people beyond their own land? Again Elrohir wondered how other elves could confine themselves to live inside their woods and let the world outside pass by.

 

Another group of elven warriors approached them, Elrohir recognized the Guard of the Trees at once. “Gaeltôr,” he greeted their leader as he reached them.

 

“Elrohir, it has been a long time,” Gaeltôr greeted him too, allowing for a personal word before becoming strictly formal again. “I bring word from the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim,” he addressed the group in full. “they have allowed your passage into our land, and will allow you to walk freely for now – even the two dwarves that are with you.”

 

Knowing a summons to the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien when he heard one, Elrohir exchanged a swift glance with Aragorn, who gave him a small, nearly invisible nod. They both would have to do the talking, as they were well known amongst the Elves of this realm. Having removed the blindfold, Elrohir gave Anvari the weapons back. The younger dwarf smiled, betraying more relief in that smile than he maybe wanted to. “Thank you, Elrohir.”  Kíli had also taken his weapons back, joining the thanks with a silent nod that also told Elrohir that he was ready to navigate whatever maze was ahead of them.

 

Gaeltôr led them along a white winding stair up to the great halls of Caras Galadhron, where the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien with their court awaited them. Their greeting was courteous, if shorter than usual amongst elves in such circumstances. Elrohir felt the inquisitive glance of his grandmother upon himself and the group as they were greeted by name. “Nine were meant to set out from Rivendell,” Celeborn said eventually. “though I only see eight standing here. Was there a change in council that caused a change to these plans?”

 

“There was no such change,” Galadriel had risen, her eyes shining alight in the dusk of the hall. “Mithrandir… I cannot perceive him any longer, save through a shroud of shadow. Speak, what befell your company?”

 

“Mithrandir fell into shadow,” Aragorn answered her. “he entered Moria with us, but did not escape the dark deeps.” In short, clear words Aragorn recounted the events in the deeps of Moria from the chase that drove them there to the final confrontation with the Balrog.

 

“Dark and twisted your path seems and evil tidings you carry,” Celeborn said, “had I known that you passed the forbidden city and then entered the deeps I would have been more careful in allowing you to enter this land. And had I known that the dwarves again stirred up the evil under the Mountains I would not have welcomed you at all.”

 

“Darkness may yet shroud their path,” Galadriel spoke up again, “but not all is yet lost. Their quest is tethering on knife’s edge, going only a little astray will bring doom to the world. But there is still hope, as long as all of them are true.”

 

Her glance fell on Elrohir and he felt the familiar brush of her mind against his, keeping his eyes on hers he heard her voice. _Do you feel it, Inyo? I once warned you of the whirlwind… and now it is rising more fiercely than I ever believed. What is it that happened? All seems out of place, and yet all seems where might have to be._

 

Knowing that she could feel his thoughts, the echoes her words provoked, Elrohir tried to keep focused and not let his mind stray. _I do not, but then… I never was able to see things like you and Ada do. What is it that has you worried?_

Her voice became a little more distant. _I will speak to you of this later, Inyo. I do not understand it myself yet. Keep to your strength, to your loyalty and you will not go astray._

Elrohir saw how her gaze shifted to Aelin, their contact was short, almost only a fleeting touch. He could not tell why, but he knew that their tolerance of allowing Aelin here was all he could ask for. When her gaze held Aragorn’s there seemed to be a longer conversation, before he glance shifted anew, to Frodo this time. Elrohir saw how Frodo twitched, shying away from her eyes, and while he could not deduce what was said between them, he could tell that Frodo was uneasy with it but stubborn enough to not give ground. Sam blushed and bowed his head quickly when his turn came. Her glance lingered long on Kíli, almost entirely disregarding Anvari, to finally rest on Boromir. Elrohir saw their Gondorian comrade tense, his face twisting, as he breathed heavily. While the contact was short enough, his reaction was the most averse of them all.

 

Then Galadriel turned again to all of them. “Do not let your hearts be troubled, tonight you shall sleep in peace.” She announced. “And we will not speak of your quest again until you are refreshed and healed.”

 

They all bowed deeply before the Lady and Lord before they were led down to the ground again by a group of elves who showed them to a pavilion near a fountain, where they could rest. “Did you feel it too?” Sam asked, as he settled down. “I felt like I was all naked, Master Frodo, like she could see through me entirely, if you get my meaning. And then… it felt like she was asking me what I’d do if she could send me home to the Shire, to that little house Clayhangers used to live in, with that fine garden and pond behind.”

 

Frodo who had sat down beside him, reached over to put a hand on Sam’s arm. “I did not know that Clayhanger’s duck pond held such appeal to you.” There was a warm friendliness, an understanding in his words.

 

Sam shrugged. “It’s a nice pond, Mr. Frodo, but I’d not go back… not with you going on.”

 

“I felt the same,” Frodo said, curling up on himself. “like I was offered another path – another road. Like to see Bilbo again, or being able to stay home finally.” His eyes went to Anvari. “She looked at you only shortly.”

 

“She asked if I wanted to be healed – to be untainted again,” Anvari replied, “to be a real dwarrow again… but I doubt I hold the same importance as others in this quest.” His eyes went to Kíli who still stood, leaning against the support beam of the pavilion. “What about you?”

 

“She offered me to go home – to be back at Erebor…” Kíli’s voice was tense, pressed. “before the White Raven can call again – to prevent what…” he broke off. “It was the cat’s game and I don’t think we should play it.” With that he settled down near the exit of the pavilion.

 

Worried Elrohir studied his friends, while he did not feel like he had been tested, he could see that some kind of test had passed for the others. Neither Boromir nor Kíli were happy with it, and while the others had spoken easier of their experience they too were uneasy with it. A new worry crept into his heart – if Galadriel found it necessary to test them like that she foresaw a new danger, one that might not come from the outside of the group. He did not like that thought at all.


	13. Reflections in a shadowed pond

Galadriel stood alone on the high hill of Caras Galadhron watching the dawn rise far beyond the grey eastern clouds, though her eyes hardly had any true attention to the spectacle that was so perpetual and ever changing like the world itself. Her mind was on a riddle that she had encountered the previous night… or was it 80 years of the world ago that she had confronted this puzzle? Back then she had attended a particularly frustrating session of the White Council, with Gandalf and Saruman arguing the dragon on Erebor and with Saruman deeply suspicious that there was no group of dwarves with Gandalf. Of course she had known that her grandson, her Inyo, Elrohir had been instrumental in helping the dwarves to not come to the attention of the powerful wizard.

 

Back then it had been morning too, eighty years ago on the soft meadows of Rivendell when she had felt it – a bent in the very fabric of the world becoming a rift that formed a whirlwind – a storm of fate. Deeply worried she had tried to see more but only perceived that the storm centered over the ice-capped peak of Erebor, a nexus of events, of paths and of decisions that could topple the world itself, a whirlwind rising. She had acted according to what she felt, sending Elrohir to Mirkwood to discern what danger the Woodland realm might be in – and thus she had unwillingly aided the storm to unfold. The events had spiraled out of control, resulting in the death of the dragon and the bloodiest battle of the last centuries. But the storm had abated and her sense of the whirlwind had faded out of existence. She had later apologized to Gandalf – his assessment that the dragon was dangerous beyond belief had been right after all, if his destruction needed such a storm of events.

 

Still, her sense of a tear in the very fabric of the world has remained, like something had been cut adrift, an irrevocable change that she did not quite understand. And now… last night, when the Fellowship Elrond had set on their path from Rivendell had been brought before her, she had felt it again – the whirlwind, spinning in the fabric of the world with a force a thousand times stronger than before, so fiercely that she was wondering how reality was not fraying under the sheer force. As her eyes touched the faces of the travelers she had found three that had been connected to the events of the past – Elrohir, whom she herself had brought into the storm, Kíli the dwarf, who had been part of the company and… Boromir of Gondor. She had met him before – in the face of a stranger she had encountered him, in Rivendell travelling with the company of Thorin Oakenshield, a traveler linked with the dwarves through choice or fate, someone she had hardly paid any attention to. His rile had seemed insignificant to her, even as his individual deeds might have meaning to those who witnessed them, later he had died in the Battle of the Five Armies.

 

And now… this was her riddle, how could a man have lived then and now? How was he linked to the whirlwind? Or was it his very existence that caused the whirlwind? No, she dismissed that thought; no one being could be the cause such a rend in the fabric of fate. Or was she assuming too much, dismissing a possibility because she believed the strength of men too little to contend with fate itself? When she had been confronted with them she had tested both of them, Boromir and Kíli… sensing a strange link between them, more than just a bond or vow, it was a link of fate, a chain tying their paths together. Strangely it was a fate they seemed to have chosen, a chain they both accepted without truly understanding it. And in Kíli she had found it – the shadow of a fate cheated, the shadow of a destiny demanding its price. In the spur of the moment she had revealed parts of her foresight to him, testing him if he would sacrifice the quest to prevent the loss and destruction coming for him, to find that he had already been warned – that he had been told that fate would not let itself cheated forever. He knew the price that was coming.

 

It had influenced her trial of Boromir, but to her surprise he was entirely unaware – he did not know of his own path and she might have committed a grave mistake by confronting him with a few glimpses of it – for he carried a darkness inside him that could not be denied and there was a will for power that she found dangerous. He was a man to contend with fate itself, to test his will against a hostile world and not to ask for the consequences. It was the most dangerous trait in any soul.

 

“If you do not hear my approach until I am up the hill, you must be far away in your mind,” a voice spoke up from behind her – the familiar melodious voice of Elrohir. Sometimes she had wondered what traces of her daughter she would find in him, but time and again she found other traces of her family’s bloodline in him much more prominently than the echoes of her Celebrian.

 

“Maybe my mind is right here, trying to unravel the riddle you brought with you,” Galadriel replied, gesturing him to join her on the hilltop. Her eyes met his and again she felt the brush of the whirlwind. “The world is shifting under our very feet, Elrohir, a whirlwind has touched us and the leaves are ripped into the maelstrom, racing towards the end of this age, of this world… the patterns of fate groan under the force… beware of what has been wrought, it will incur a price in blood and tears.”

 

She stumbled backwards, her body almost collapsing on itself as the power of the short glimpse afar left her drained of strength and flailing. She felt Elrohir catch her gently, helping her to sit on the stone bench under one of the Mallorn trees. “You warned me of that storm a long time ago,” her grandson reminded her. “and I can only tell you what I told you then – we will have to fly with the storm and navigate the whirlwind if we wish to come out on the other side.”

 

Her minds vision still swirled and she had to consciously block it out. “Something has changed, Elrohir – you must see it. Two of your comrades… they should not be here, they were and they are…” She almost choked when the words died in her throat, like an invisible force pushing against her mind. Struggling to maintain calm she surrendered to the pressure, not trying to fight it and after a while the force abated. “Something has changed,” she repeated when she was Master of her own voice again, “and we all were touched by this change. For good or ill… who would have dared to challenge fate itself in such a manner?”

 

“I have never seen you so affected by anything,” Elrohir said, looking around for the next guard. “I shall send for a healer.”

 

“No,” Galadriel put her hand on his arm, the light touch enough to stop him immediately. “I am beginning to understand, Elrohir, and there is nothing that you can do.” His eyes were on her, puzzled, he was a fighter, not someone to unravel the mysteries of the world. She  held his gaze, hoping he would understand. “However this began – however this storm came into being – I must have had a hand in it, either myself or through one I taught. And those from whence a force originates must not interfere with the consequences.”

 

“Forgive me if I do not understand,” Elrohir said, “Arwen said she felt like she was blocked from the world, caught behind an invisible wall and you seem torn by whatever is happening.”

 

“Imagine throwing a pebble into a pond,” Galadriel replied. “the pebble cannot touch the ripples it causes, once the pebble has broken the water it has to sink, unable to change the pattern of the ripples it created. In some way Arwen and I seem to be the pebble, sinking through the waters while above the ripples create the waves of a tempest.”

 

“But… if it is something you did, or Arwen did, you would know of it, wouldn’t you?” Elrohir shook his head. “Except… years ago you did not know what it was what you felt? How can that be?”

 

“Something we did… or will do? Chose to do and paid the price for it? Failed to do? Who can say?” Galadriel replied softly. She could not tell, her sight was obscured from more than just glimpses of the ripples cast on the water of the world. “I will need you once more, Inyo, to watch the whirlwind, to be there when it unfolds and maybe to steer the path the storm will take.” She rose, walking towards her grandson. “And I am sending you in worse danger than before – the world itself tethers on the brink of destruction this time and I fear for the price it might extract from you.”

 

TRB

 

The broad well of the fountain had most likely not been built by the elves with bathing in mind, but it had proven the best place for the comrades to wash. Squatted against the rim of the stone basin Kíli saw his own reflection in the clear water, he saw it with a strange detachment in his heart, a part of him whispering that he saw the past, something gone and done with. And while he knew that voice to be all too truthful, he dreaded the consequence that would come. _You were spared a great loss once, now it will come for you all the more bitterly._ He recalled the words Celebrimbor had said to him upon their goodbye in the fallen city… they had proven true already.

 

He had known Thorin would die – age had settled upon the mighty dwarf king during the last years – but Kíli had not been able to imagine a world without Thorin’s strong presence in it. Maybe he felt that way because Thorin’s presence had left such strong marks on his own life. He thought of his brother – how might Fíli feel now? He had always been closer to Thorin than Kíli, especially after the events in Erebor when Thorin had been under the curse of the gold. Closing his eyes Kíli relaxed his mind, listening into the bond that linked them, over leagues and leagues that separated them he reached for his brother. And he found him – Fíli’s mind intensely focused, fighting…

 

TRB

 

“Drakhar!!” Bladvilas’s warning shout cut through the icy air of the peak as the winged creature began its dive towards the fighters on the ice, the beast was not set on landing or delivering more troops onto the ice, but it carried a barrel in its claws, dropping the cargo right on top of a fighting group. The explosion shook the glacier, fire churning a dozen warriors at once and melting deep into the ice. Fíli had only moments to see what was happening – he and most of Icehawk’s guards were surrounded by attackers.

 

Stabbing one of Varigians, he felt the blade grow warm in his hands as he beheaded the next. Winterflame cut through them like a storm, giving him the room that he desperately needed. He had known that it was risky to use the exits of the Reach to go out and rescue all the stragglers from the Iron Hills, those who had been too exhausted and fallen behind, disregarded by the Easterlings. It had been risky to save them, but leaving them to die in the cold would have been utter cruelty. Thus they had acted, using the exists in the Reach to get out and find their people, guiding them back to Erebor.

 

Fíli did not know how the enemy had found out – but found out they had and now they were bringing their winged creatures and troops to attack the Reach. A blade landed on his side, making no more than a dent in his armor, he pushed the attacker back and stabbed him into the gut. The Varigians were fighting with an utter disregard for their own life, making them dangerous adversaries.

 

New fires erupted as the Drakhar dropped more barrels on the fighters, a part of the glacier became unstable, a flood of water and grease ice sliding down the steep sides of the peak, burying friend and foe alive. “Fíli – the last are through, we are ready to destroy the gate!” Bladvila had reached him, a bloodied axe in his left hand, an equally gory mace in the right. “We need to get back inside, once the gate collapses…”

 

Fíli nodded. “Have left flank retreat first,” he ordered, “then Blackbear guard and Steelfist, we’ll cover them.” He could see the protest in Bladvila’s eyes, but the warrior did not voice it. He understood that it was Fíli’s duty to see his people back inside safely, before he would go himself.

 

“Kór,” Fíli turned to the Captain of Icehawk Guard, who had his back. “what do you think of that ice-buckle over there?”

 

The warrior of the reach grinned. “Not to overlook – they’ll swarm us.” He gestured his men to fan out, the warriors of the Reach moving across the ice with the natural balance of those at home in these forbidden surroundings.

 

“Good,” Fíli moved with them, at the top of the formation. “that’ll keep them off the others.” He saw another Drakhar make his dive and yanked a Varigian spear from one of the corpses. Taking swift aim Fíli threw the spear, hitting the scaled beast’s belly. The Drakhar shrieked wildly in the air, tumbling and crashing down on the flanks of the Mountain.

 

It did not take anything more to gain the Enemy’s attention, several groups of their fighters broke off pursuit of the other dwarves and hurried towards them. As their forces clashed, Fíli’s mind was almost numb, each hit, each attack, each falling enemy became part of a bloody storm, he could not allow himself to be weak, so he pushed himself harder, his sword a song of destruction in his hands. By the time left flank had retreated the hill around them was strewn with corpses – blood marring the icy, when Blackbear guard finally made it out of the fighting the Varigians were already stumbling over the corpses of their fallen comrades. Fíli had lost count how many he had killed, how many he had maimed… how much blood was running from his blade.

 

“They have to run out of reinforcements eventually,” Kor grumbled, his axe smashing the skull of another Varigian.

 

To Fíli’s left he saw Bladvila break down under the blade of another attacker, he advanced, ramming his sword through the Varigian, he could not help Bladvila, who was bleeding out on the ice, so avenging him was all that was left. “Stellfist is through,” Kor’s voice was strained, edgy with exhaustion – and with loss. Most of his Icehawks lay dead on the ice and those who were still standing, were wounded. “we can retreat.”

 

Fíli nodded, gesturing him to send the badly wounded first. “We can hold out until they are safe,” he told the other warrior – there was no doubt that Kor agreed, they would at least see those escape who could make it back to the gate.

 

“No, you can’t.” The voice was as cold as the surrounding ice, and hard as the frost in a midwinter night. Coming about Fíli saw a single Drakhar landed on the ice. The rider – an Easterling in full black armor – had spoken.

 

“Trakhaine,” Fíli growled, recognizing the leader of the siege. “I wondered when you would show your face.” He could see the wounded warrior make it to the gate – they needed only a little more time and they would be safe. Once the gate was destroyed, there would be no way left for the Enemy to use to get into the Mountain.

 

“Contrary to some of my comrades I know when not to lead from the front,” The Easterling replied coolly. “though they make the great examples of course, quite inspiring to see. Much like you – and as tragic in the end.”

 

Fili gripped his blade with both hands. “Come here and fight – or are you afraid? I always thought you were a bit of a coward, running from your fights.”

 

Trakhaine was not the least riled, he laughed, a dark, amused laughter. “I am not that young foolish hero that slew your father, Prince… or is it King Fíli now? And I don’t worry about honorable kills – as long as the goal is reached. I’d love to toy with you longer… you are more interesting than your old father, but time’s up.” He pushed the Drakhar into the flanks and let it leap into the air.

 

Fíli moved backwards, blade raised to defend against an attack, but the winged beast swooped by him. A hot pain erupted in his back, like a flame eating into him, he gasped as his knees gave out under the pain. A black spear had impaled him from behind, Fíli’s eyes almost disbelieving on the black speartip emerging from his chest. “You cowards…” the words came out in a whisper as he tasted blood on his lips.

 

Far away, inside the bond, he heard Kíli scream, trying to reach for him, trying somehow to help him, he could feel the fierce, bright flame of his brother shine like never before… and he knew it was the last time he would see it. The pain surged and he coughed. Was he alone on the ice? Or had the moment just frozen? He did not know, but he felt how his own draining strength affected Kíli, they both were drowning in an ocean of blood. They both would die… again he felt Kíli reach for him, stronger than before, much like an embrace from afar.

 

No… he must not let him die. The thought gave Fíli new strength, he had to find a way. He reached for the spear in his body, but all his hands found was the hot blood on his armor, running into the cold night. Fíli closed his eyes, trying to reach Kíli, to make him let go, he must not die with him… and then he remembered. He had been there before, so many many years ago – he had witnessed how Boromir had died, how he had died to save them. And he knew what he must do.

 

Not longer reaching for Kíli, he reached for his own end of the bond, pushing it away. It hurt… it hurt worse than the spear in his body, more than the cold of the ice, but it worked. He gasped, shaking in pain as he pushed the words out.

 

From the path I chose to tread,

to the gateway mortals dread,

through a blaze so angry red,

to the night where I must die,

under the cold winter sky,

hear the ones I loved pass by,

in the dawn I will note wake,

to the chains I now must break,

releasing them for Kíli’s sake.

Pass the door so cold and clear,

to the shadow that draws near,

through the night so many fear.

Under the failing sky,

in this hour I must die.

 

He coughed, blood staining his lips as the last words came out, the bond fraying, beginning to wink out of existence. He heard Kíli keening in pain, begging him to not do this, to not leave, the desperation echoing from his end more intense than ever before. _I am sorry, little brother, we have lived on borrowed time too long already, you and I._ Fíli thought, wanting to comfort his brother, wanting to let him know that he should go on, that he should live… he collapsed on the ice, his body shaking as the bond was suddenly severed entirely and Kíli’s strong, powerful presence vanished from Fíli’s world forever.

 

It was cold – colder than anything he had ever felt before. “Kor,” Fíli rasped, praying the warrior was still alive, not killed by another cowardly attack.

 

“I am here,” from the angle of his eye he saw Kor push himself up, injured severely but alive. The blond warrior knelt down beside him, trying to assess the wound.

 

“Leave it… it’s too late,” Fíli shivered, it was so dark here suddenly. “Kor… your will bring my sword to my son… I trust him… to go on where I failed. He will defend the Mountain…” He coughed, his body shaking in pain. Grasping the hand of the other warrior Fíli pulled all his strength together. “No suicide out of you, Kor… promise me… I need you to watch over Asutri…”

 

He did not hear the answer, though he saw Kor’s lips move. The darkness drew closer, creeping from cold grave as empty and dark as the winter skies, under such a sky he had been born, Fíli realized, what a strange though for a dying dwarrow. A fresh chill ran through him. Why was it snowing all of sudden? Where was the ice?

 

“Now, now, little one, there’s nothing to fear in a little snow,” he heard a familiar voice, a voice he had not heard since he was a very small dwarfling, as someone lifted him up from the snow, to carry him back to the fires…

 

TRB

 

Kíli screamed, a hoarse, rough scream of agony as he felt Fíli’s life spark wink out of existence, their bond – the link that had held them together for so long, shattering to pieces. He reached for him, wanting to go with him to wherever Fíli was going, but he could not, pushed back into his own body, alone, he collapsed, unable to stand any longer. Wrapping his arms around himself he tried to stifle the sobs in his throat, not realizing that he was already crying.

 

The pain inside him was like a hole, cut into his heart, even as he felt Fíli’s last words from afar. _I am sorry, little brother, we have lived on borrowed time too long already, you and I._ It was the first, the maybe only time he had ever heard a voice, words inside their bond and all he wished that he could hang on to them, as the bond frayed and faded away.

 

“Kíli,” a familiar voice broke through the veil of pain, he blinked hard, trying to blink away the tears in his eyes. Boromir had knelt down beside him, grasping his arms. “Kíli…” there was worry and compassion in his voice, and even stronger inside the bond. “your brother?” he asked, only in a hush.

 

“He…” Kíli’s voice broke, thinking it was hard enough, but saying it was even worse. “he… fell in battle,” he could not say it any other way, his mind refused to think it and his lips would not utter the word dead, not while a part of his soul still refused to believe Fíli truly was gone. He felt a strong hug, holding him, the compassion; comfort flooding into the bond was as raw as his own pain, in the whirl of emotions Kíli’s mind blanked out.

 

TRB

 

When Aragorn saw Boromir return to the pavilion carrying Kíli he jumped to his feet, he knew there was no danger inside of Lothlorien, but something had happened – something to put down one of their dwarves. “Boromir, what happened?” he asked, as he helped the Gondorian bed down the unconscious dwarf, there were no outer signs of injury, but Kíli’s pale face was set in a mask of pain, streaked with tears that there was no doubt something had happened to him.

 

“His brother… he fell in battle,” Boromir said, his own voice rough. “I… I felt the pain from Kíli, the agony, he could feel his brother die and could do nothing… he passed out shortly after I reached him.”

 

Aelin joined them, squatting down beside the dwarf, gently checking his swordarm. The eerie light inside the dragon was gone, leaving only the red flame behind. “Fíli and Kíli shared a bond, similar to the one you and he shared…” the elf said slowly. “but Fíli must have released the bond before he died, else Kíli would have died the same instant. And even then… it might have well been your presence that anchored him in this world.”

 

Boromir looked to the sleeping dwarrow, silently wondering what kind of fate or destiny had tied them together. Yet, he did not question it, it felt right, it was right – something he would not want changed, much as it hurt at the moment. He wished he knew how it had begun, how they had come to follow this path – but while he did not know, he knew he could help Kíli through this. Sitting down beside him, he focused on their bond – on the echoes he felt inside his mind, trying to reach him, to let him know he was not alone.

 

Sometime during the long night during which he guarded Kíli’s fitful sleep, Anvari joined them. The younger dwarrow was pale, dark rings marked his eyes, barely hidden traces of tears, but as he sat down beside them he was calm, almost still. Gently he ghosted his hand over Kíli’s forehead, brushing a few sweat-damp locks away. “He will make it back – he always does,” he said softly.

 

Boromir was not quite sure what the young dwarf meant, but he knew from experience that something to talk about, something to distract from the pain, could help to not think of loss for a while. “You believe that his soul is not with his body?” he tried to make sense of the words, much like often when he tried to unriddle something his own father had said.

 

“He isn’t here,” Anvari said, this time with real surety in his voice. “you only feel him because your soul is linked to his… but his soul is straying into the Grey, searching for my father.”

 

“I thought he was your father,” Boromir clearly recalled the introduction in Rivendell, the statement was out before he could stop it. It was maybe not the best thing to say, if it was true Anvari was mourning his father and certainly hurting at his mention.

 

“Fíli is… was my blood father,” Anvari explained, his eyes never leaving Kíli. “Kíli adopted me, for dynastic reasons mostly… and because he raised me for the most part… that makes him my father now.” He looked up. “It is a very long story, Boromir, and one too confusing to tell now. Not when Kíli might still follow Fíli to the world beyond.”

 

“Is there any way to bring him back from that place… the Grey you called it?” Boromir truly wished Faramir was here, he would probably know something from the forbidden writings of Numenór to bring back a straying soul. But maybe one of the elves would know something. “To guide him back to us?”

 

“To enter the Grey one has to go into a truly deep sleep, to edge on the brink of death,” Anvari said, his blue eyes fixing on Boromir. “and finding a specific wandering soul there… legend says it is what Thalion did for Durin II when he lay dying on the fields of Belamore, and some say Frérin Dragonsbane found Jilá’s soul in much the same manner – but that is legend, stories of the elder days.” He sighed helplessly. “Kíli was always the strong one, the one others could rely on,” his voice sank down to a whisper, talking to himself, to Boromir, maybe to no one. “when grandmother was murdered… he did not stop a moment to mourn, he grabbed me, packed me on that horse and off we went to find help… he never took a moment to cry for his own mother, always duty first, grief later – always strong for others… but this time… this time… what if he can’t do it? If it is too much? And I can’t do anything, I couldn’t even find him in the Grey…”

 

“But you know how to go there?” Boromir sat up straight, he hated being helpless as much as Anvari did, but maybe they were not as useless as it seemed. “Can you bring us there?”

 

Anvari looked at him incredulously. “Aside of being dangerous, I told you it is next to impossible to find someone there, lest Mahal himself wills it to happen.”

 

“If my soul is truly linked to Kíli, and I have no doubts about it, then maybe I could find him?” Boromir suggested. “It is risky, but all things worthwhile are – and I won’t sit here and do nothing if we can do something to help him survive this.”

 

Anvari bowed his head, mumbling something Boromir did not quite catch. “For dwarves straying into the Grey is easy, if we sleep too deeply, reaching for the mother stone too fiercely our souls will begin to stray. You are of Menfolk, of the Earth and the Land, I do not know if your souls wander the same paths as ours… but we can try. You have to make yourself sleep – focus on Kíli, on wherever he is…”

 

Being a soldier Boromir had learned to sleep when he had the chance, to relax his mind into rest when the opportunity arose, no matter if there was a battalion exercising on the other side of the wall, but this night he found it hard to fall asleep. He tried to focus on the turmoiled echo he felt from Kíli, the echo of his familiar presence but that kept him awake, when he finally managed to dose off, he jerked away from sounds around them. Until finally sleep pulled him under.

 

_He stood on a steep grey hillside, mist was drifting from the valley grounds and snowflakes were dancing in the air. A chill wind fell from the steep mountainside, though the landscape beyond that was merged into mist. To his own surprise Boromir recognized the landscape – he had passed through it only days ago. Dimril Dale looked as cold and grim as it had back then, a forbidding valley with an icy lake at its heart. Was this the grey, he wondered. Or was it only a dream? Something that had slipped into his mind? Then why was he aware that he was dreaming?_

_“Come on, Kíli, it’s not much further,” the small voice made Boromir turn around, not far from him two small figures were struggling down the hillside. Both were only children, small children, the older boy had blond hair and led a tiny darkhaired boy across the cold grounds. “They said it was down in the valley.”_

_Surprised Boromir walked towards them, they were no more than children – clad in simple clothes made from wool and leather, both wearing no shoes but walked on the hard grounds with the ease of children used to running barefoot. Had he not heard their names, he would not have been sure they were Kíli and his brother… and yet, there was something about them, about the two small figures that was familiar. But what were they doing in the vicinity of one of the greatest Orc dens of the known world?_

_Suddenly the valley changed, no longer was it the barren landscape of rocks and stone – but a battlefield, discarded Orc corpses lying everywhere, blood and broken blades littering the ground, and there were piles of ash… burned down pyres. He heard a strangled, choking sound from one of the boys, as their eyes widened when they saw the blood field. “Kíli, Fili,” a harsh voice cut through the silence as a dwarven warrior strode towards them, he wore a damaged armor and was marked by battle. His long dark hair framing a hard, stern face, in which Boromir could see the similarities to Kíli at once. “what are you doing here?” The question was asked in no less harsh tones than the words before, a slight impatience echoing in the voice as well._

_“Dwalin said father was still here,” the older of the two answered. “and when he did not come we went looking for him. Please… he must be here somewhere.”_

_Boromir could hear an audible sigh from the warrior as he squatted down and his stern mien softened, when he placed his powerful hands on the dwarfling’s shoulders. “Dari is not here anymore,” he said in a rough voice. “he went on the long journey back to Mahal’s halls, and you must not wait for him to return. But his spirit will watch over you, always.”_

_Loss… so this was what linked Kíli to this place, Boromir realized, while he did not understand the familial structures of a dwarven clan, he could understand that the loss of family was what had transpired here. Celebrimbor had spoken of the battle of Azanulbizar… a battle that one of Kíli’s ancestors had fought in, a King who had fallen… but if this was true, where was he?_

_As Boromir took a step forward the vision of the dwarves and the battlefield melted away and he stood again on the barren landscape, beside a simple stone on the shores of the lake, engraved with runes he could not read. But there was a heavy sadness hanging over this place. How many dead rested by these shores? How many more would follow?_

_One day hence and one day fair,_

_You and I too will fare,_

_To the sands where we will share,_

_The rest under the broken spear –_

_Who knows where?_

_The words were spoken in a familiar deep voice, when Boromir turned around he saw Kíli – much like the Kíli he knew, maybe a little darker than his friend, but still the friend he knew. “You should not be here,” Kíli said softly._

_“And neither should you,” Boromir approached him, and while a part of him knew that distance did not exist in this place, it still made it easier. “this is no place for the living, Kíli… only a place of great sadness.”_

_Kíli shook his head. “When will you stop taking the worst, stupid risks for me?” he asked, his eyes focusing on Boromir._

_“On the day you stop getting into trouble?” Boromir asked back, not knowing how the sudden ease had snuck into their conversation. “Kíli… you will not find your brother here, only the echoes of the past. The pain of the past, it is torment, plain and simple. And we need you.”_

_“The Quest,” Kíli straightened up a little, or maybe it just seemed so to Boromir. He looked back at the lake, at the cold valley. “you are right, Boromir, this place holds sadness, pain and grief… and it also held a dream. A dream buried under thousands of corpses, a dream befouled by the Orcs clawing at it and still… a dream, sometimes so fragile we’d only dare to whisper of it, lest it would break.”_

_“No, not the Quest,” Boromir reached out to clasp Kíli’s shoulders. “if you had to go home to protect your people after your brother fell, the quest would have to take care of itself. But… if we give up before our time, who then is to oppose the shadow? We all die in the end, there’s an umarked grave for each of us – but there’s no need to hurry towards what is already written.”_

_Suddenly Kíli looked up, his dark eyes losing their dead expression. “Is that what you believe, Boromir? That we are already slated for death, for a burial in some nameless valley?” It seemed like the very words brought the fire back to his eyes. “Nothing is written until it comes to pass, nothing is preordained, one man, one blade, one lucky arrow can rewrite fate in our favor. There’s always hope…”_

From one moment to the next Boromir woke, pushed back into wakefulness and into his body, he opened his eyes and saw Kíli wake, pushing himself up. “And I won’t give up before there’s no other option left,” he said firmly.

 

The strength in his words surprised Boromir, there was an iron will inside this dwarrow, even in moments of deepest grief, a will to fight and defend, and an ability to hope that was beyond him. “I knew you wouldn’t,” he said warmly. “and that’s why we need you.”

 

TRB

 

Kíli stood again at the fountain, alone, the cold waters mirroring his face. He was more than a little ashamed that he had been so weak, so selfish to almost die to follow Fíli. It was the peak of selfishness, especially with the quest he had committed himself to. No more. The loss of Fíli still hurt, it would never stop to hurt, but much like when Boromir had passed from this world a long time ago he now knew there was only one way to deal with that pain, with the loss – by proving he had been worth it, worth of surviving.

 

Slowly he drew a sharp knife from his bracer, wetting it in the water of the fountain. Dwarves rarely shaved, and if they did it was more out of shame than out of mourning, though mourning was another reason to not wear a beard. Kíli had never worn his beard long, keeping it cropped short, much like Thorin had. Weighing the blade in his hand for a moment, he began to shave it off, removing it entirely. The short, bristly hair fell down, flocking into the water and carried away. He went on until the beard was entirely gone – nothing left, not even the faintest trace. He squatted down taking up some of the wet, rich soil that surrounded the fountain, wetting it with the water of the fountain, then spreading it along his cheeks. It did not take long to dry and wash off again and it felt different from the heavy earths of his homeland, but it would do the same – preventing his beard from re-growing for the time being.

 

It was strange to see his face like that, but also strangely fitting, for the mourning as well as for the shame. He put the knife away and then removed the mithral clasps from his braids, undoing them entirely, until his hair hung free over his shoulders. With the few grey streaks in the dark mane, no one could believe him a youth anymore, though it made him look like he had long ago. Looking at his reflection in the water, he made himself notice the change. No hiding, no looking away, he bore shame for being so weak, for nearly failing the quest. He’d have to be stronger than that. Packing the clasps away he gave his reflection a silent nod. _Duty first, Grief later, be strong for others._ He could be that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> I guess some people will hate this chapter… it is born from the logic of what happened in Durin’s Bane… and that there are consequences of what was prevented there. Though I knew for a while this moment would come, I absolutely dreaded to write it. *hides behind desk* I wish I had a good emo and/or angsty gene, though…


	14. A saying of the East

The three grey boats were the most thoughtful gift; Boromir had to admit, though they had looked deceptively fragile as they bobbed on the waters of the river by the forest’s edge. Having seen the road leading north along Anduin during the previous summer, Boromir knew the boats would save them a lot of time and some troubles as well. Even as their stay in the elven realm had allowed them to wait out the worst winter weather, he was sure that the path along the shore would be largely impassible before the warm season dried it off.

 

They had split the group up for the boats – Aragorn taking the two halflings and some of the packs, Boromir and Kíli taking the second boat along with the bulk of the packs and the third boat was shared by Elrohir, Aelin and Anvari, who all three seemed at ease with being on the water, while neither the Hobbits nor Kíli appreciated the boats much.

 

It had been a strange change to pass from the last vestiges of the golden woods out onto the open river, where they soon saw the cold river banks left and right, the trees were still barren and while it was not snowing anymore, the dim, grey weeks before a new spring would grace the land was not passed yet, and the chill of the passing winter was still clinging to the air. The first day on the river passed quietly, Boromir and Kíli took turns with the oar, the dwarf was able to handle the boat, though he seemed ill at ease on the water. When night fell they made camp in a narrow river bend where a cut off meander joined with the main stream.

 

“We will have to think now on how we will continue East,” Aragorn said, as they sat around the small campfire, Sam still busy with the cook pot now and then clanging with the ladle. “I do not know which way Gandalf planned in pursuing, though he spoke of approaching Mordor from the North once.”

 

“We could stick to the river until we reach Cair Andros,” Boromir replied, a map of the region clear in his mind. “we could gain fresh supplies there and hear the Ranger’s reports on the situation along the border. Then we can decide what path to pursue.”

 

“There is wisdom in what you are saying, Boromir, but I am not sure we should stay out in the open for so long,” Aragorn put another stick into the fire, sparks flew up and startled Sam. “going to Cair Andros might expose us to spies of the Enemy – and remaining hidden from his eyes is our best protection.”

 

“Are you saying you don’t trust our people?” Boromir frowned, but did his best to reign in his temper. “They have been fighting on that border for longer than you can tell and they are true.”

 

Aragorn shook his head. “You have often said that the Easterlings are a resourceful, cunning people, an Enemy not to be trifled with – if they are all that they must have spies amongst your people. They would be stupid not to. It takes one spy, one traitor, to expose our very plans to the Enemy and we must not risk that.”

 

“Rangers!” Boromir rose, more to let some of his anger out in the movement instead of the words. “Soldiers learn to trust each other, to rely on each other – and that’s how they survive. Rangers expect shadows and treason everywhere, and consequently always find it.” He strode off a few steps away from the fire. He should not be as angry at Aragorn’s words, Faramir would have suggested something similar, but… His fist made hard impact with one of the trees, why was this entire conversation making him so angry?

 

“The tree might argue that it did nothing to incur your wrath,” a deep voice came from the darkness, where Kíli ducked under a half fallen Arl tree and joined him.

 

Exhaling sharply Boromir leaned against the rough bark of the black oak. “Better the tree than strife inside the group,” he replied, trying to calm his still seething emotions. He should not be angry like that; strife inside the banner was unhealthy, even when there was argument over tactics. Or was it that he was too much used to being in charge to easily defer to Aragorn?

 

“Agreed, though if sitting in a boat all day has you antsy, we can always spar – it helps to quell sudden anger.” Kíli suggested, sitting down on the trunk of the half-bend tree. “Though I wonder what has you so tense – Aragorn certainly did not mean to slight your soldiers when he spoke of his worries that the Enemy is having an eye on your borders.”

 

“I know that,” Boromir shook his head. “I know he did not mean it, and though he may not know these men, he should respect them. It is…”

 

“You worry about your homeland,” Kíli observed, his deep voice gentle, understanding. “you wonder how the war is going, how they are holding out, how your family is holding up.”

 

How could he see through Boromir’s inner turmoil with such clarity? “Aye,” Boromir admitted, when he realized that Kíli had verbalized what his own mind refused to truly give words to. “We know the Enemy is on the move and if they commit such forces to the minor campaigns of this war… nothing against your people but it is a minor front…”

 

“You worry how much they will bring to bear against Gondor if they are willing to commit some of their Elite against Erebor.” Kíli observed. “and how far their campaign has already progressed.”

 

“True – and that also will dictate our own tactics. If the River has fallen, there will be no safe place left on the eastern shore and we will have to find a way through their staging area.” Boromir made a fist. “I hate making plans without knowing the situation.” And he knew he could not change anything about the situation, but talking helped already. He pushed away from the tree and together they went back to camp where the discussion of the road to take had long abated.

 

_Boromir stood on the jagged rocks of Emyn Muil, his sword blunt and gory from the numbers of foes he had slain, their bodies littered the grounds around him, hairy, stinking corpses, marring the stones with their black blood. There was no triumph in him, though – he had been too late, too late to save them. Sheathing the blade he began to make his way down into the valley, stones came lose under his feet and two times he slipped before he reached the bottom of the vale, the dark jagged rocks rising like gnashing teeth above. There were bodies down here as well – Orcs cut down by arrows and some by sword marks, but much fewer than lay up on the rocks. He should have been quicker to reach them – even as he knew they had been foolish._

_The dead end of the valley opened to a circle of stone, where he saw the remains of a camp – the fire had not yet burned out, though the flames were slowly dying. He found them as they had fallen – Aragorn with a blade through his back, lying on a pile of dead Orcs, Anvari with an arrow through his throat, his blade still in the cold hands, the elves – hacked to pieces by angry Orcs, their bodies mutilated almost beyond recognition. Boromir wanted to scream – why had they decided on that foolish plan? Why walk into the shadows of the Emyn Muil, trying to sneak through a land that was swarming with Orcs? They had been so sure this was the best plan… and now they lay cold and still under the uncaring stones of the broken lands. He found Sam’s corpse, the tiny sword the Halfling had never wielded well lying beside him, he had been slain by an axe through the head and he lay atop another corpse. Boromir moved him aside to find Frodo underneath, four black feathered arrows had cut short the Halfling’s life, his eyes wide open in shock, he had known he was dying. His hand was closed around something near his neck. Carefully Boromir pried open the cold fingers, finding a band of fiery gold shining on the pale palm._

“Boromir!” A strong hand had grasped his shoulder and shook him. “you need to wake up.” The voice was the familiar deep voice of Kíli.

 

Slowly Boromir blinked, his eyes heavy with sleep still. He saw the fire was still burning low and the others slept soundly. Kíli was squatted down beside him, his expression worried.

 

“You were having a nightmare,” he said softly. “you were thrashing in your sleep, talking in words I could not make out.”

 

Sitting up fully Boromir concluded that it had to be Kíli’s watch hour, two hours past midnight. He rubbed his hand against his forehead. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, glad that Kíli had interrupted the strange dream. “I can take the rest of your watch if you want.”

 

Kíli sat down by the fire again, some of the flames flickering towards him. “I couldn’t sleep either,” he said. “but some company would be welcome, it’s a quiet night.”

 

Boromir joined him by the fire, the warm flames and the company making it easier to shake off the strange dream that was still lingering on his mind. The river was rushing by, the waters whispering in the dark, a sound so familiar to Boromir from countless watches in Osgiliath. “This feels almost like home,” he said in a hush. “if one were to forget that there is nothing but trees around us, and imagine some ruins left and right, it would almost feel like Osgiliath. The mists rising from the banks, the river rushing by and the Orcs lurking somewhere on the other side.”

 

Kíli leaned back, sitting relaxedly, though he had his weapons within easy reach. “Osgiliath – is it still one of your major fortresses? I remember when they began to build the river citadel there in the ruins… who would have thought that Turgon was so farseeing when he commissioned these works?”

 

“Celeanost, the River Citadel, you were there when it was built?” Boromir asked startled, the citadel had been built in the ruins of Osgiliath, making use of the remaining fortifications at the heart of the city and creating a defensible point within the ruins of the fallen city. “but that was a century ago.”

 

“I was still a dwarfling when we came there,” Kíli replied, his eyes on the fire. “and the ruins were… impressive, such beauty carved in stone, though long gone and fallen. Though I doubt it would look the same with the defense your people have been putting up.”

 

“I doubt that too,” Boromir said, before launching into a colorful description of Osgiliath these days, of the long defense and of Ithilien. Kíli listened attentively, asking questions now and then, and between them they kept watch until dawn rose and it was time to wake their comrades.

 

TRB

 

When they loaded the boats again, Frodo approached Kíli, after having spoken to Elrohir already. “Last night when we reached the shore I saw something in the water, swimming after us. I did not see much but Strider thinks it is Gollum.” He said hastily. “Your boat is the last on the river and he may still be following us.”

 

“We will be watchful, Frodo,” Kíli said. “keep close to Aragorn and do not stray anywhere alone as long as we have that foul thing on our trail.”

 

Boromir, who had stowed away the packs again, moved two of them into different positions, towards the middle of the boat. “I take the oar today, Kíli, you take the bow and keep an eye on our back.”

 

“Good idea,” Kíli climbed into the boat, sitting at the bow, his back to the front and eyes on the river behind them, the black bow resting on his knees with the quiver beside him.

 

Pushing the boat off the shore, Boromir’s eyes fell on the black steel weapon. “That looks almost like a bow the Drakhar riders use,” he observed, “only without the double curve. Do dwarves make such weapons too?”

 

Kíli did not look at him, his eyes trailed the waters and the shores that fell past them. “No, dwarves don’t hold with bows mostly and will prefer crossbows over ‘elf toys’. This is an Angmar bow I found in a troll hoard years ago – it has served me well.”

 

Taking the enemy’s weapons and using them against him, Boromir liked the pragmatic view the dwarf had on things, the trust into his own strength not to be corrupted by something the shadow had made. There was something solid and reliable in that way of thinking.

 

“Go a little slower,” Kíli suddenly whispered. “no… do not look back, just let us drift slower.” His hand had sunken on the bow and he drew a long steel arrow from his quiver. With one fluid move the dwarf came up to his feet sending the arrow and two more above Boromir’s head upriver. A shriek echoed from the water, like a curse or hiss, Kíli fired again, the third arrow flying straight at the target causing a wild gurgling howl before silence fell.

 

The sudden movement had made the boat rock harder and Boromir had to use the oar to stabilize them again. “Did you get him?” he asked, not wasting time to look back. If the arrows had hit true there would be not much to see either way.

 

“Two arrows should have hit him, the third only struck the wood he is clinging to,” Kíli sat down again, the bow still close at hand. “whether the shots were lethal I cannot say, he either sank or dived.”

 

“An arrow wound might be enough to slow him down and allow us to lose him,” Boromir pushed the oar a little harder, bringing their boat closer to the others again.

 

The rest of the day passed in silence, Kíli kept a watchful eye on the shore and the river but did not spot anything again, by nightfall they hid in a thicket of willows near the riverside. Kíli told Aragorn of his sighting and shooting of Gollum and the Ranger studied the river thoughtfully. “I too was watchful all day, Kíli and I have not seen any corpse drift by us, so he may have escaped death yet. If for good or ill… I do not presume to know. But he cannot follow us any longer, which is as well as we can expect.”

 

 Boromir volunteered for first watch after they had eaten. Most of the company settled down swiftly to sleep or rest. Keeping a watchful eye on the river, Boromir listened out into the night, where he heard the wind moan in the barren trees and the river whispering and rushing against the stones. A thin crescent moon rose from the eastern banks casting a cool light on the sleeping land, he hour passed in silence and Boromir was relieved by Elrohir, who, like always, kept away from the fire, sitting in the dark at the edge of camp while he kept watch.

 

Lying down under his blanket Boromir closed his eyes, allowing sleep to come for him. But with the drooping shadows of rest the dreams came on their soft feet to tug at him…

 

_He was standing by the riverside when the Orcs came – their assault overwhelming the camp swiftly, a slaughter that no one escaped alive. He fought, fought like never before, trying to push through to his comrades, but it was too late. The butchering was complete before he could reach them – all of them cut down, their blood running into the uncaring river. And in the mud beside Frodo lay it – the ring, burning like fire._

_I knew you would come for me._

Stirring in his sleep Boromir half woke, vaguely aware of the night around him but he could not wake fully, pulled under again by leaden sleep.

 

_He had left the group, returning to his homeland, he had a duty to fulfill and no time to traipse all along the Emyn Muil. At the borders of Rohan he met a patrol that gave him a horse and accompanied him across the plains. His heart was relieved he was going home. But when Eomer told him that something strange had been washed ashore south of the Entmarshes he could not refuse to take at least a look, especially as Eomer was clearly searching for help. Thus they rode north again towards the murky river delta… and there they found them: bodies washed ashore, torn and battered, some slain, some drowned. And with the dead body of the Halfling he found it – the Ring aglow in light and his voice whispered to him._

_I knew you would come for me._

He tried to wake, his eyes opened and fell close again, the sleep was like an iron clamp on him, keeping him chained in mind and body, no matter how much he struggled. Boromir kept dreaming.

 

_The quest had taken a steep price as they continued, Sam was the first to die, drowned by an Orc during an ambush near Sarn Gebir. Frodo was heartbroken over the loss of his faithful friend, and hardly spoke since that day. Aelin was next, remaining behind to hold off Saruman’s Uruk-hai under the falls of Rauros, the elven warrior had delivered a brave stand but eventually died at the hands of the Orcs while he friends escaped. Anvari was the next to go – killed in a Haradrim ambush within sight of the Black Gate itself, they had to leave him behind, or the mission would be in danger. And then the day came that Frodo drank from a poisonous spring in Morgul vale, dying a slow and agonizing death, pressing the Ring into Kíli’s hand as he died._

_And so they went on, across the ashen plains of Gorgoroth, Elrohir remaining behind to draw the Orcs off when they left the Mountains and Aragorn dying from an arrow wound within sight of the fiery Mountain, the life of the last King bleeding out deep in enemy lands, none of his people ever to know his courage. Like all Rangers before and after him he died in shadows. The end came in the shape of an Easterling banner for Boromir and Kíli, at the very foot of Mount Doom they were caught, a spear ending Kíli’s life. And Boromir took the burning band from the dying dwarf’s body and it shone like fire on his hand._

_I knew you would come for me._

_And the Easterlings bowed before him._

 

“Boromir!” Someone slapped him hard, “you need to wake up.” He was startled from his dreams, going from deep sleep to fully awake within the span of a breath, Boromir came up with his dagger in hand, directing the blade at his attacker. The blade scratched along something metallic before his hand was caught in a hard grip, blocking his movements. He opened his eyes and saw Kíli kneeling beside him, a bloody smear at his neck, his fist holding Boromir’s right wrist in an unforgiving grip.

 

“Kíli… forgive me… I did not mean to…” it had been years since he had been startled enough to accidentally attack a comrade, and that had been after some bad events down at the border of northern Harad.

 

“’Tis nothing, just a scratch. I ought to know better than to startle a warrior like you,” Kíli let go of his hand, the gash at his neck was already drying. “You were having dreams again,” he said more softly.

 

Boromir sat up, sheathing his weapon. The dreams were still so close, each of them so real – especially the last one. “I tried to wake up but could not,” he said after a while. “like something was keeping me chained into these dreams. Always… always you die, you all die… and I am the one to survive and take the Ring…” he looked up to meet the Dwarf’s eyes. “What is happening with me?”

 

Kíli squatted down opposite of him, his dark eyes warm, compassionate. “It is the Ring, Boromir, it is trying to reach for all of us, to touch us, call for us. It wants us, to twist us for its own purpose.”

 

“You feel it too?” Boromir asked, somewhat relieved he was not the only one to feel the lure, though he wondered why he did not see any signs of the allure in the others.

 

“Aye, I do feel it too,” Kíli replied, lightly touching his arm. “do you remember what happened to me in Ost-in-Edhil? You saw me there… we all have a weakness, a point it tries to exploit. Mine is knowledge, yours is strength.”

 

“Power you mean,” Boromir couldn’t keep the self-loathing out of his voice. How many power-hungry fools had he met in his life? More than he cared to count, the council of Nobles had its fair share of them, and there were more of that sort down all the history of Numenór, he should know better. The greed for power had doomed his people before.

 

“No, not power – but strength. You want to be strong to protect your people, to destroy the shadow, to make sure no one else has to fight a war such as you had to…”

 

“You are entirely too easy on me,” Boromir said, only then realizing that Kíli had said the same in Ost-in-Edhil, maybe that was why they understood each other so deeply – they knew the best and the worst of each other, the strongest feats and greatest weaknesses. They knew each other like they had walked side by side for an entire lifetime – and maybe their souls had in a place far away.

 

Kíli managed a smile, it did not reach his eyes, which remained dark as the night itself, but it was there and Boromir knew the dwarf was trying, if only for his sake. “That’s what friends are for, Boromir.”

 

Again they settled down by the low burning fire to keep watch for the rest of the night, talking softly about Gondor, the White city and the shores of the southern seas.

 

TRB

 

Idrakhán woke to a fresh wave of pain, his entire body seemed to scream with agony, each muscle burning and his bones felt like they had been snapped and healed a dozen times, only to be snapped again. He groaned, trying to move, trying to see. “Shhh… I thought you’d never come around,” he heard a familiar voice. “here, drink this, it will help…”

 

He swallowed the bitter liquid obediently, feeling a gentle sense of dullness seep into his body. “Shakurán,” he rasped. “what are you doing here?” He knew they were in the dread city, and either he was still in the deep dungeons or he was out of them, but how he did not know.

 

“I brought you here from the deeps,” Shakurán told him, carefully beginning to spread a salve on Idrakhán’s back. “Khamûl is still vexed, believe me but eventually he did allow it. Hold still now… these will take a while to heal. Darkness above, Idra, you haven’t managed to anger Khamûl that much since the debacle down in Khand.”

 

“The mission was a failure and we lost the prey,” Idrakhán grumbled, angry at himself and maybe at Shakurán for being entirely too soft on him. “I am surprised that he did not have my head for that.”

 

“I think he might still value you somewhat, once he has cooled down a little,” Shakurán put the jar with the ointment aside. “and the mission was taken out of his hands entirely.”

 

Idrakhán scoffed, they had often found themselves at the opposing ends of politics in Minas Morgul, the court of the Nazgûl was a pit with invisible undercurrents all over on the best of days. Idrakhán belonged to Khamûl’s most trusted, while his brother was one of Menedhil’s people, and Nr.2 and Nr.4 as the Orcs termed them, were opponents most of the time. “There is no mission, Shakur, they got away when the Eastern Gate of Moria collapsed.”

 

“For which I will be eternally grateful,” Shakurán grinned. “with the Eastern Gate destroyed we will be send there less often, and I for one am not complaining.”

 

And there it was, Shakurán’s dratted humor, his sense of honor… all the things that made him slightly unreliable, slightly less trustworthy, Idrakhán wished his brother had chosen a different path. Looking up he noticed a fresh mark inside Shakurán’s wrist, a seal replacing the mark of Menedhil. His eyes widened. “The Witch King, Shakurán… I thought you were…”

 

“…slated for soul-sacrifice?” Shakurán finished the sentence. “Do not worry brother, your warnings about me might still see me killed before the war is over. But yes, I was raised to serve the Witch King – he is the one who has the mission now and it is not over yet. One of our spies in Orthanc reports that Saruman might have a trail of your escapees. Unfortunately Saruman is as reliable as the King of Khand – a fair-weather ally if I ever saw one.”

 

With a sinking feeling inside his stomach Idrakhán realized that his brother might have his mission now, and in the name of the Witch King at that. How had he managed to come to the Great One’s attention. “You are either telling me to rub it in, or to gain information.”

 

“Or to simply comfort you a little, big brother,” Shakurán replied. “I will be off come nightfall on a Drakhar, to see what truth there is in our spy’s report. I’ve told Falon to take care of you, until you are fully healed. Khamûl is off North to see why the northern campaign is stalling, so he will have someone else to vent is anger on. I hope he hangs Trakhaine.”

 

“You never liked Trakhaine,” Idrakhán managed to speak without rasping so much. “which is not wise, he is one of Barad-Dûr’s chosen.” He looked up, to see Shakurán’s face, there was change in his brother. He was paler, more tense than before. “What happened?” They might have opposed each other at times, played the game of different Nazgûl and still they had worked together well when needed.

 

“Shantar is dead – he fell in a duel with the dwarven King,” Shakurán’s voice was even, as was expected of an Easterling warrior but Idrakhán was not fooled. He had never understood his brother’s marriage, nor the close link he seemed to have to his family, it was nothing anyone in Minas Morgul could afford to have, it was weakness.

 

He reached up and grasped his brother’s arm. “Listen, Shakurán, I know that you were always a little on the soft side, but you have to push past that. Shantar died a hero, be proud of him. You have a mission before you and some cunning foes to contend with. They outmaneuvered me a number of times and kept their nerves in the deeps of Moria…”

 

Shakurán rose, pushing the arm off. “I will not fail in my duty, do not worry, brother.” He said firmly. “And I will find your escapees. You know the old saying: There is nothing that walks in the Light…”

 

“… that the Shadow cannot reach.” Idrakhán finished the line. “Be careful, Shakurán, the last reports I heard about Isengard were ambiguous at best.” 

 


	15. The Nature of Strength

Boromir pushed the boat towards the sandy riverbank, the long sweeping branches of a drooping willow provided a measure of cover for them, though the trees were still barren. The wind had turned during the last few days, coming from the south now it carried a measure of warmth – maybe only an echo of the spring to come. But it keenly reminded him that they were rapidly approaching lands that he’d call home. And that was an encouraging thought in spite of his own exhaustion.

 

Kíli jumped into the water and pulled the boat fully ashore, while the river was deceptively sluggish and slow in the wide ‘lake’ it formed in the opening mouth of the valley, the roar of Rauros’ mighty falls drowned out the whispers of the wind. Another strong pull and the boat was secured beside the other two. “There we are,” the dwarf said as he unloaded two packs, handing a third to Sam who was waiting impatiently for his cooking utensils. “we either leave the river come morning or carry the boats on the path downriver.”

 

Boromir had left the boat and helped with the unloading. “I doubt we’ll continue on the river,” he replied, recalling their discussion a few days back. He noticed Elrohir, who had not yet joined the camp, but was standing beside a tree, eyes watchful on the shores. “Are you alright?”

 

The elven warrior turned to him, his mien tense. “Something is not right, Boromir – I cannot put my finger on what it is, but I feel like something is drawing closer and closer to us – unseen but dangerous.”

 

“Could it be our watery stalker again?” Boromir was not sure that Kíli’s shots had killed Gollum, and maybe the creature proved hardier than they had expected and kept up the pursuit.

 

“Maybe,” Elrohir replied, “I am not sure. None of us should stray from the camp alone.”

 

Silently Boromir agreed, they had been a little more relaxed during their nights along the river – with the lessened pressure of pursuers and no immediate danger of encountering Orcs they had lifted the rule of no one going anywhere alone and relieved the Hobbits of the constant company of at least one elf. He saw how Elrohir waved Aelin closer and spoke to him, while Boromir could not understand the elven conversation, he could read Elrohir’s demeanor and was sure that some kind of order had been passed to his comrade, who promptly joined the Halflings again.

 

Seeing the fire already burned Boromir joined the others. The presence of the two dwarves had spared them a lot of searching for firewood, as their fire needed little beyond what was initially used to light it. Even Sam had gotten used to the dwarven fire and announced it quite practical. “Should we cross the lake after dark, to avoid being seen?” Boromir turned the question to Aragorn, the Ranger had the most experience with the wilds and knew the Emyn Muil, he might even know a landing site on the other shore.

 

To his surprise the Ranger shook his head. “I am not sure we all should go,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes on the small fire, where Sam was busy tossing some fish into the kettle. “I have been thinking on what you said the last time, Boromir, and I believe we might have to split the group.”

 

“That would weaken both parts significantly,” Boromir replied, keeping his voice calm, ready to hear Aragorn’s reasoning. “and it would weaken the protection of Frodo especially. I do not see what can be gained by that.”

 

“Up till now protection was our primary concern,” Aragorn looked up, his eyes shining with conviction. “we had to cross Eriador, get over the Misty Mountains and all but evade the Northern Anduin valley – all places where we had to expect to encounter great numbers of enemy, and where our own number was a matter of strength. But now…” He pointed out to the river. “now secrecy will be a better shield than swords and stealth our strength. A smaller group can pass unnoticed, unseen.”

 

“The Emyn Muil will not be empty, and the light alone knows what lurks in the swamps behind,” Boromir could see the logic in Aragorn’s words, it was a Ranger’s strategy, small numbers, stealth and secrecy – he had seen Faramir do similar things, taking risks only with one or two of his most daring comrades at his back… it had driven Boromir up the walls more than once. “and reducing the group… whom would you leave behind?”

 

“You and the dwarves, obviously,” Aragorn said without any malice, raising his hand to forestall protests. “Boromir – the Enemy will know you left Rivendell and where you were last seen. If you fail to return to Gondor, someone will wonder what important mission could keep you from returning to your duties. By returning you will alleviate some of these wonderings and by keeping the border strong you will keep more enemies busy and off our backs than by accompanying us.” He sighed. “I cannot forget what you said about the defenses of Gondor… and I would feel better knowing you there, leading the defense.”

 

“Which makes sense,” Boromir was not sure if he should be flattered or feel betrayed as Kíli agreed with Aragorn. “though why you want to be rid of us, I do not know.”

 

The Ranger leaned back, his eyes darting to the dwarf who was sharpening several daggers and throwing knives. “Stealth, Kíli, that is my reason. I know you can sneak through tunnels and caves with the best – but otherwise Haldir was right: you breathe so loudly an Orc could shoot you in the darkness. With only the Halflings, the Elves and I, we will be able to truly sneak past the Enemy.”

 

“Hobbits pass unseen by most if they set their minds to it,” Kíli said, sounding like he was quoting someone and there was a faint trace of warmth creeping into his voice. “you make a good point, Aragorn, though I might not like it.”

 

“And it would free you up to go home and help your people,” Boromir pointed out, like he Kíli too had to worry about his homeland being under siege by the Shadow.

 

The dwarf put aside the whetstone and the blades. “No, Boromir – we will come with you and rejoin with Dwalin and the army, they should be closing in on the White Mountains by now, if they encountered now troubles on their way through the old dwarf roads.”

 

There was a strength in Kíli that Boromir admired, how he was able to _trust_ that his people were to be able to handle the dangers by themselves, that his _family_ would see this through, was beyond him. How hard must it be to accept that his homeland was a minor theater of a greater war and to turn to the greater battle, no matter what happened at home? “I’d be glad to have you both with me,” he replied, “though I am not truly convinced of that plan yet.” All too vividly he recalled his dreams of finding them all dead.

 

“The seat of Kings – the old overlook – is not far,” Aragorn said, rising slowly to his feet again. “it is said it allows a far sight over the lands. Whether it can reveal something that will aid us, I do not know. Will you come with me?”

 

Boromir rose, as did Kíli accepting the proposal and together they headed into the woods. The sun was already deep and the shadows were long on their way uphill. “Something has you restless,” Boromir observed towards Aragorn. “much like Elrohir is restless.”

 

“I wish I could speak more clearly,” Aragorn replied, striding up the steep path. “but something in my heart has been restless for the last two days – like there was something awaiting us, some danger I could not foresee or anticipate, and I have learned to heed such warnings.”

 

“Now you almost sound like Faramir, and it usually is wise to follow his hunches. He looked to the side, where Kíli walked with them, sword on his back and bow in hand. “You said very little.”

 

The dwarf shrugged. “My people do not have the gift of foresight, nor the souls that strive perpetually to unveil the ‘morrow. And the few of us who think they know how to read the Omens… it’s usually a lot of nonsense and reading the hop at the tankard’s bottom.”

 

“And yet you saw the white Raven,” Aragorn had not stopped, though he cast a quick look towards the dwarf, like he was not sure if he should even have mentioned that.

 

Boromir felt a short flare, like the searing hot rising of flame and temper in the bond, though Kíli reined it in at once. “If… if we know of such things, Aragorn, it is something etched into the soul – we rarely speak of it, if we are truly allowed a glimpse at Mahal’s plan for us, we have to accept in silence. Fate does not ask that you like what it burdens on your shoulders, but it expects you to bear it proudly.”

 

“And you do not have the same sense of danger Aragorn and Elrohir have?” Boromir tried to steer the topic away from fate, from death omens and other portents.

 

“None whatsoever, Boromir, if there is a danger nearby I won’t know until it comes out and I can bush it’s skull.” There was something firm, solid about these words – it was only a glimpse but Boromir began to understand that Kíli was a creature of stone, unmoving and unshaken like the bones of the Earth, uncaring for the whispers of the wind and unafraid of what the day might bring. A rock had to bear what came, when it came – he perceived some of that stoic strength in his friend. There was something fundamentally different in him – not as obvious as the Elves’ otherworldly grace or the Halflings deep-rooted Earthiness, but in this very moment Boromir could believe that Kíli’s people had been carved out of Stone in a dark winter night and been given life by a storm.

 

They reached the overlook – the main walls of the former tower were broken, only a ring of stone and some arches remained, reminiscent of a time when this had been the Northern Border of the Kingdom. Walking towards a still standing arch at the southern side, Boromir leaned on the rough stone rim. Aragorn had been right the view from up here stretched for miles and miles, he could see the great river as it wound south, past the plains of Rohan, and against the darkening skies he also saw the peaks of the White Mountains. Over the great distance his eyes sought for the one pale peak that was Mindolluin, knowing that in the shadow of the guarding mountain lay Minas Tirith.

 

“Boromir! Get down!” Kíli grabbed his arm, pulling him to crouch behind the stones, a gesture of the fingers pointing to their left. Ine the rapidly darkening woods Boromir saw lights – torches moving through the dawn and he heard feet – heavy feet pounding the ground, steel clashing against steel. “Orcs,” Kíli whispered.

 

Carefully Boromir peered through a gap in the stones, counting the torches, listening to the noises the wind carried towards them. “At least half a banner, maybe more.” He said in a hush. “We can’t kill them all, but we sure can distract them – Aragorn, go back, find the others and bring them across the river. Kíli and I will keep the Orcs busy.”

 

“It will be your death,” the Ranger protested. “there’s too many of them – if we sneak away…”

 

“And they see us, we are all dead.” Kíli shook his head. “No, Aragorn – we need them distracted long enough for you to get away. Be swift – and don’t look back.”

 

Hesitantly Aragorn rose, vanishing into the falling night. Boromir looked around. “We need to get their attention,” he said, wondering if it would be enough to charge at them. Then he saw Kíli’s mien – the grim, hard grin on his face.

 

“Then let us invite them,” the dwarf turned towards the stone seat in the middle of the overlook where a few twigs and branches lay along with half-rotten leaves. Squatting down beside them, his hands moved and moments later a flame – the blue fire – rose blazing from them – the cold light shining far out into the evening.

 

Downhill they heard shouts, and Orc barking orders, and feet racing up the steep hill. Standing back to back, Boromir and Kíli awaited them. The first coming into view Kíli picked off with his bow, each shot another Orc tumbling down the hill again. The few moments before the storm began Boromir noticed that these were no Mountain Orcs – they were too tall, their dark figures well armored, but they were not Mordor Orcs either. How many breeds of the ugly kind were there in the world?

 

The storm began – the Orcs rushed through any opening in the ruin, the old stones not holding them back for long. Boromir soon found himself not fighting one opponent but four of them, all were Orcs nearly taller them himself, armed with heavy blades. The first time his sword clashed with one of the rough steel weapons he felt the weight of the weapon and the strength of hit in his arm. Pushing against the Orc blade, he broke free from his first adversary, spun arround and saw himself faced with the smaller orc, wearing the typical rag-tag armor of the Mountain Orcs. With a fierce grin the Orc brought both his falchion's up, slashing them against Boromir's armor, but he was at a disadvantage, because Boromir reacted swiftly. He dodged the first attack, diving below the blade, and delivering a thrust upwards, that nearly broke through the armor. But a harsh blow, dealt out with the armoured fist of the Orc, threw him backwards. He jolted, landing on his feet again. Inwarldy Boromir cursed fate, the Shadow and the Nine in one sentence, he had no breath to spare for a loud curse.

 

Why in the name of old demented Gothmog, had some to stumble across them exactly here? Had they nothing better to do? Continuing whatever their thieving mission was or planning to conquer the world perhaps? He set a hard kick against the huge Orc to his left, it hurt him too but it threw the Orc off blance, he came around and unleashed a whirlwind of attacks on his first attacker, who parried half of them, and suffered some damage from the rest. The smaller Orc tried another attack and this time was beheaded, when he came too close, much as another too careless one was stabbed in between the fighting.

 

Caught in between these fighters Boromir had also received the first wounds, nothing really serious by now, but he knew he was not to last long if things went on this way. Again he spun delivering another surprise attack, catching one of his enemies off guard. Kíli moved deftly into the gap, his blade taking out a few more. Drawing his dagger with the left hand Boromir threw the short blade at another storming Orc in Kíli's flank. The razor sharp blade was not likely to miss the target and the victim himself did not see it coming, it cut clear through the weak armor protecting the neck. He had no time to see that Orc fall, there were more rushing at them.

 

TRB

 

The first Elrohir heard were the shouts and the howls of a warg – there was nothing more distinctive than the fierce howling of an angry warg. It was also enough to alert the entire camp. Looking North, in the direction he had heard the sound his keen eyes found the wolf and the reason for the howling – the beast had spotted someone, who had quickly retaliated by shooting the rider but now was fighting off numerous Orc attackers. A blue flame rose uphill and more Orcs shouted, the sound of fighting ripping through the night.

 

Elrohir did not need to guess who the lone fighter against the Orcs was, he did recognize Aragorn, who bravely fought against a number of mountain Orcs. Casting a glance to Aelin, Elrohir felt a heavy weight slide on his shoulders – he knew the plan. At the first sign of danger they were to grab Frodo and get him away from here, away from whatever danger was threatening them. But Elrohir could not just turn away from Aragorn, raised in Elrond’s house the young Dunedáin was something like a younger brother to him…

 

“Aelin, take the Hobbits, Elrohir and I take care of the Orcs.” Anvari spoke before Elrohir could, like he had read his soul.

 

The other elf looked to Elrohir for confirmation – and Elrohir saw the quiet acceptance in his friend’s eyes. Aelin would do what he asked of him, and not bother with questions. “Go,” Elrohir decided. “make haste and take care. We’ll deal with the Orcs.”

 

He did not wait to see his order obeyed, he headed up the hill, hearing Anvari was following him. Aragorn’s stand against the Orcs was a tough one, he stood with his back to a tree, a number of them already dead at his feet but more were pressing at him. Elrohir sprinted upwards, stabbing two of the closest attackers from behind, kicking a third downhill, he landed before Anvari’s feet and was beheaded. With an enraged howl the Orcs – grey, seething Mountain Orcs – turned from their prey and towards them. Some running, some leaping into attack. Elrohir stabbed one who came running, his knife getting another one who had jumped.

 

When they came close, three at once attacked Elrohir. He retreated two steps, let one run into the wrong direction, attacking the other with a powerful swing of his blade, while the third one landed a hit that was mainly blocked by Elrohir's armor. With a dancers grace Elrohir evaded the next attack, turning fast and slashing the Goblins head from his broad shoulders. The turn had given what strength his arms could not muster. He had no time to raise the blade again, for the other two were still attacking him.  One of them fell from a strike from behind, Anvari had taken him down. The young dwarf threw himself with a fierce will against the Ors the sword in his hand moving so swiftly it almost seemed like a silvery arch in the air. His attacks came down like a hailstorm, he was moving faster than the Orcs could anticipate. Elrohir knew that fighting style and joined him with it, making use of every gap, of every moment when an Orc proved unable to follow Anvari's swiftly enough and with almost every strike Elrohir killed one or two enemies at once. Anvari attacked again, driving the Orcs back towards Elrohir, who saw them stumble towards him. He did not care much about their axes, but sped up a little bit more and finished them off before any of them could land a strike on him. More came, and the two fighters continued as they had begun: always moving, always attacking they left a trail of dead Orcs on the slopes of the hillside.

 

TRB

 

Aelin hastily tossed the packs into the boat, helping Sam inside and lifting Frodo up next to set him into the vessel. The Hobbit pushed against his hand. “The others will die,” he insisted.

 

“I know,” Aelin replied, hearing an arrow hissing all too close for comfort and hitting a tree. The Orcs were already closer than he liked. Had Elrohir not ordered him to go, he’d have followed him into the battle – but the elven Prince had given a clear order, and Aelin had learned to obey an order when he heard one.

 

Taking the oar and placing it sidelong into the boat, he pushed it off the shore and jumped in. Frodo’s eyes were still fixed on the other shore. “Is there nothing we can do?” the Halfling asked softly. “I feel like a cowards running… leaving my friends to die.”

 

It was maybe the hardest lesson of war, and one Aelin knew no one ever learned fully: to accept the death of others. He pushed the oar into the water. “Going back would be dishonoring their choices,” he said, half for Frodo, half for himself. “because they fight so we can get away, so the quest can continue.”

 

“He is right, Master Frodo,” Sam spoke up, reaching for Frodo’s shoulder. “and Mr. Strider was right too – we have to get the Ring away from the open, away from where they can find us. Maybe… when we are gone, the others can get away?””

 

Frodo ducked his head. “You never give up, Sam, do you?”

 

The other Hobbit blushed. “Where there’s life, there’s hope… and a taste for good ale, as my gaffer always said. Do not give up, Master Frodo. There others are strong – and they know what to do. I am sure they will find a way to escape, to lure the Orcs away… you saw how they got us so far.”

 

Aelin was glad Sam kept distracting Frodo, for the fighting behind them got louder, more intense. He could hear a bang, then more Orcs shouting and howling. He did not look back, his eyes were fixed on the dark eastern shore. At a narrow inlet between the rocks he steered the boat ashore again, securing it swiftly. Then he helped the two Hobbits onto the rocky grounds. Here, on the other side of the river silence reigned. Around them was nothing but the darkness and the sharp rocks of Emyn Muil. “Come,” he said, leading them away from the river and into the nightly labyrinth of the rocks.

 

TRB

 

There was no hope of escaping. The friends stood back to back when the huge Orc warriors swooped down on them. Boromir could not tell how long they had already fought, corpses littered the ground of the overlook, blood smeared the stone and it was dark - but how deep into the night he could not tell. He just felt how his strength was waning slowly. He fought has hard and as good as he was able to, but with every stroke he landed he felt a bit more of his strength give way. He stumbled under a fierce attack of two Orcs at once. Making use of the momentum, he pushed forward, catching he second attack before it could reach him. A burning pain ran up the bones of his right arm, numbing every feeling inside his sword arm. He changed his blade into his left hand and parried the next attack just barely. He retreated a step, parrying again, but the next strike lost him his stand, and made him fall to the ground. He tried to jump to his feet, but he did not come up again. The huge already raised his blade for the finishing blow Boromir knew he could not evade. But the stroke never fell. Instead he felt the cold steel right at his throat, as two more Orcs grabbed him, holding him down on his knees.

 

“Give yourself up, dwarf-scum,” the largest of the Orcs drawled. “or your friend here sees his guts outside his stomach.”

 

Looking up Boromir saw Kíli standing with his back against the remains of a pillar, a lot of corpses littered the ground around him too, and he was still holding his own. Their eyes met and silently Boromir asked Kíli to not give in, to not let the Orcs win.

 

“Why capture?” One of the Mountain orcs bellowed. “We came here to kill, to avenge our brethren.”

 

“Shut up you measly mountain maggot!” The huge Orc roared. “This is higher than your stinkin’ hole. Now dwarf… if you scratch one more of my lads, I’ll gut your friend alive.”

 

Boromir saw the strange expression in Kíli’s eyes, anger, resignation and a stubborn will that still shone through. With one angry movement the dwarf raised his sword and rammed it into the ground before him, giving up. The Orcs grabbed him too, dragging him down. Boromir closed his eyes, not even able to feel at this moment. Why… why would Kíli give himself up like that? No man was worth more than the mission, and Kíli still had a chance to get away… why would he rather sacrifice himself?

 

The Orcs tied his hands with leather bonds, kicking him. But the huge Orc held them back. “No games, lads, they’ll have to walk a long way. Shagrat, find Bolg that useless weasel – and give him a beating for his lies. There were not little elves here – but warriors.” He laughed a guttural laugh. “Saruman will get his answers from them.”

 

TRB

 

The Orcs were moving off, called off by the loud shouts of orders ringing out South. Elrohir leaned on his sword, exhausted. The clearing they had fought in was a gory mess. Bodies, limbs and blood smeared everywhere. Aragorn stood Anduril in his hands, still the back against the tree, Anvari was on the other edge of the clearing, he too was exhausted, leaning heavily on his blade. “They are retreating,” he panted, walking up to them.

 

“Meaning they either got new orders or they got what they wanted.” Aragorn sheathed Anduril, pushing away from the Oak tree that had protected his back. “I fear the latter.”

 

“No, Aelin and the Hobbits should be across the river by now,” Elrohir told him. “and I doubt the Orcs saw them leave.” He trusted Aelin, and he knew his friend would have done as he was asked.

 

“We have to find out,” Aragorn spoke firmly now, in spite of his tiredness. “we need to know Frodo’s fate first… before we can ascertain what happened to Boromir and Kíli.”

 

They hastened back down to the landing, the silence in the woods was eerie after the hours of fighting. The landing lay undisturbed, no traces of Orcs were visible, none of them had ever found the campsite. One boat was missing, along with the packs of three of their friends. Elrohir cast a short look on the tracks, they confirmed what he thoughts. Aelin had gone with the Hobbits.

 

Aragorn stared into the darkness beyond the waters. “They are beyond our reach now,” he said in a hush. “for good or ill, we brought them as far as we could.”

 

“What of the others?” Anvari asked, his eyes pointing uphill where the blue flame had burned out. “they might still be alive.”

 

“I very much hope so,” Aragorn told him, taking the lead as they made their way through the forest. Approaching the overlook was approaching a battlefield. A number of Orcs were lying on the stairs, shot as they tried to get close, more bodies lay inside – the overlook was as bad as the clearing, only Elrohir saw less dismembered orcs, and more stabbed ones instead. But there was no trace of either Boromir or Kíli, nor were there bodies other than Orcs.

 

Aragorn squatted down studying the tracks, following them outside towards where the Orcs had gathered to retreat. “They were captured,” he said grimly. “taken alive and dragged away.”

 

Elrohir picked up a helmet off a fallen Orc. “Some of these Orcs bear the sign of the White Hand – some are Mountain Orcs though.” He observed, keen eyes surveying the bodies strewn through the overlook.

 

“Saruman,” Aragorn rose, coming back to them. “Gandalf feared that his treason might run deeper than he knew – and while our friends do not have what Saruman desires, he will press them for answers.”

 

Anvari joined them as well, carrying something in his hand. “Stormfire – Kíli’s sword – I found it over there, by the pillar,” he said, carefully examining the weapon. “I wonder why they left it behind.”

 

“They did not care,” Aragorn’s voice was tense. “they wanted the captives, everything else was secondary. We need to hurry – we must be swift if we want to hunt them down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> I might have a posting slowdown over the weekend as some RL things are catching up with me. HUGS. This chapter was typed down in a hurry, in between preparing the weekend stuff.


	16. On the scent

The heavy mists rose above the rolling plains leaving heavy drops of dew on the long blades of grass and hanging in the branches of barren trees like shreds of a veil. The sun still hid behind the grey veils and the clouds marring the skies, making the first light of morning a dim set of rays breaking the night.

 

A few steps ahead of him Elrohir saw Aragorn stop and kneel on the wet grass, whether because he had seen something or from sheer exhaustion the elf could not tell. His own breath was flying, after three days and nights of constant chase, of racing across the rough grounds he too began to feel an unfamiliar exhaustion. There had been moments during their hunt when he had felt like something was slowly draining his strength, hindering his very steps. Turning around he saw Anvari catch up to him, the young dwarf’s breath was ragged but he did not slow down until he stood beside him. “Looks like Aragorn did not lose the trail, no matter how dark the night,” he panted, leaning his hands against his knees, allowing himself to catch his breath.

 

“Aye,” Elrohir could see some tracks in the grass – not much but enough to tell that the Orc host had passed through here, they too had barely rested nor paused in the last three days, like they knew they were hunted. He wanted to say more but a faint sound made him look up. It was no more than a twirl of wings, a wisp of air but his keen eyes perceived a shape high above them in the skies. Two shapes… flying west. Sliding the bow off his shoulder Elrohir aimed and fired in rapid succession – a pained shriek in the cold morning air announced one of his shots true, somewhere high above them a fell beast died.

 

Anvari looked up. “What was that?” He had drawn the sword, eyes darting around carefully.

 

“A fell rider,” Elrohir shouldered his bow again. “I only hit his fell steed – but I missed the Drakhár that was with him, he got away. They were flying west.”

 

“That can’t be good,” Anvari sheathed the blade again. He wore Stormfire on his back much like Kíli had done, he had to use it for his own blade had broken in the battle at Amon Hen. “let us see what Aragorn has found.”

 

The Ranger had moved ahead of them further, carefully studying the tracks as they ran across the grass. He looked up when they approached him. “The Orcs were met by another group during the night,” he said, pointing at a fresh set of tracks. “some Warg riders, some barefeet – Mountain Orcs if I ever saw their trail.” He rose and walked a few more steps. “but there are also some iron shoed Orcs with them now – Eastern Orcs, who must have joined with them. I do not know what it might mean.”

 

“Saruman is in allegiance with Sauron, that much Gandalf said in the council.” Elrohir’s eyes followed the tracks as they ran West towards Isengard. “who knows what kind of treachery he is plotting now?”

 

“What of our friends?” Anvari asked, he carefully kept away from the grounds Aragorn studied to not trample on any tracks.

 

Aragorn led him a few steps back to the main trail. “Here… that is their tracks. Boromir must have stumbled and fallen, Kíli was with him before the Orcs and there was a scuffle – before they went on.” He pointed ahead. “Both tracks go side by side, maybe the Orcs saw it was smart to allow Kíli to help Boromir.”

 

Anvari stared hard at the shapes in the grass and mud that were just that to him, shapes of Earth without rhyme or reason. “So Boromir is wounded,” he concluded from what Aragorn had said. “and Kíli maybe too… if the Orcs won’t kill them, exhaustion might.”

 

“There’s no fear of that yet, Anvari,” Aragorn clapped the dwarf’s shoulder. “their step is secure and long, and they are supporting each other – there is strength in that too.”

 

Without further discussion they headed on, further west into the plains. Aragorn leading them along the Orc’s tracks that now were headed towards Narn Curunîr and the edge of the forest that clung to that valley. As they ran on, Elrohir gave up focusing on the track as exhaustion returned. Never in his life had he felt so tired – not even during the long and dark months and years fighting Angmar. He felt like something of his very essence was drifting away, his substance diminished, a darkness eating at him – it had begun in Ost-in-Edhil and while it had lessened after they had left the city, the effect had lingered.

 

He had found no true respite in Lothlorien, nothing in the beautiful realm had helped him regain his strength, but during their journey he had found that focusing on the land around him, on the nature they passed through could help at least a little. Now that they reached the plains it seemed to become easier once again – or maybe he just found it easier to open to the echo of the land because it held memories for him. He had been here before – he and Elladan had come across these plains before. Freshly returning from escorting their mother to the havens they had turned their horses south to where the Orcs amassed. If he allowed his mind to stray he still could see them, galloping towards that raging battle – they had cared little who was fighting the Orcs, nor had they tried to find out – they had joined the fighting, killing as many Orcs as they could, allowing their rage to burn out in a mighty storm of blood. And once it had been over they had turned their horses North, pursuing those who had escaped into the Mountains.

 

Back then he had been blind to anything but the pain and the rage – he had been young still, only learning about pain and about loss, about letting go and fighting on. Time had taught him much, as had his friendships with mortals – and so he saw the land they crossed with different eyes this time, allowing himself to feel all the echoes he could sense from the wide plains. The exhaustion did not fully vanish, but it faded a good deal while they raced on.

 

“Elrohir, are you alright?” Anvari was beside him, though he was tired himself, the dwarf looked at him worried, cool blue eyes surveying him.

 

The gaze reminded Elrohir all too vividly of Thorin. “I am fine, even elves do not run for days and nights like this, Anvari.” He replied, not slowing down his stride. “we all feel that something is lending our adversaries strength and is pushing us back.”

 

They headed on, the last vestiges of the hills fell behind and the plain opened wide, the trail ran straight West towards Isengard. When night fell again they could already see the vestiges of the great forest North of them. In spite of being exhausted they went on, they had been steadily gaining ground on the Orcs and they would not give in now. The steady gale tore the clouds on the nightly skies allowing the nearly full moon to shine upon the land and in the silvery light Elrohir could see the dark shapes move on the plains. “Aragorn, look!” He pointed ahead. “They have parted their group – one is running still and one is camping not a mile from us in the shadow of Fangorn forest.”

 

Aragorn stopped beside him, following his hand. “You are right, Elrohir – and it gives us a hard choice. If we pursue those still headed for Isengard and ignore those making camp, we might overlook over friends, but if we engage those who camp in a fight we will lose time on the pursuit of those still running as we do not know which group carries the captives.”

 

“We could try to sneak up on the camp and see if they have captives – it will cost us time too, but less than a full-fledged fight,” Anvari suggested. “if they do not have our friends we leave them alone and hunt their brethren.”

 

Elrohir nodded in agreement. “It will cost us the least time,” he could see Aragorn’s agreement in his gaze. They went on, towards where they saw the Orc camp – the Orcs were building a fire, soon the flame guided their way towards the nightly camp. When they were almost in sight, Elrohir pointed Anvari to crouch down. “Stay here – you have our back in case we are discovered.”

 

The dwarf crouched low behind a boulder melding almost completely with the shadow of the stone. “Take care,” he said softly.

 

Knowing him well hidden, Elrohir followed Aragorn as they snuck up on the encampment. The fire was blazing bright and the smell of roasting meat clung to the air, constricting his throat. He had little doubt that the Orcs were eating one of their own; he had seen enough of their camps to know that they had little compunction to eat whatever flesh they could find. The wind carried the Orc voices up to them.

 

“Where is Uglúk?” An Orc demanded, he had just entered camp from the forest side, he was smaller than some of the others in the camp but in full armor and spoke in the Orc tongue of the East. “There are new orders.”

 

Coarse laughter greeted the question. “He went on with his lads, Grishnák, on the shortest road to Isengard, so were _his_ orders. For orders from Lugburz he wouldn’t care. Where have you been? Sneaking around with the shadows, to receive orders?”

 

“No, there was a messenger from the East,” the one called Grishnák drew himself up to his full height. “and this comes straight from the top – the Nazgûl are in charge of this hunt. They won’t tolerate Uglúk’s little treacheries much longer.”

 

“Why didn’t you bring your powerful Nazgûl, he might have come in handy.” Some of the camped orcs mocked. “Bolg too went to make a report somewhere – I bet it will mean trouble for you, because you failed, Grishnák. We’ll dine on you soon enough.”

 

“Bolg that measly maggot,” Grishnák snapped. “he thinks himself in favor but all he is going to earn is a spot in the darkness…” His words were cut short by a sharp hiss and an arrow going right through his throat.

 

Left of them Elrohir heard hooves thunder, many hooves, at least one hundred riders charging in a semi - circle at the Orc encampment. He would have slipped away unseen, but the Orcs were fanning out swiftly to fight, encountering him and Aragorn before the riders even.

Elrohir drew his sword, stabbing the first of the Orcs, whirling around to behead the next. The Orcs in the camp were no few in number and they headed where they heard the first fighting, placing Aragorn and Elrohir exactly in the thick of the battle, as at least two dozen Orcs charged in their direction. Anvari had heard the fighting and came racing towards them, to be cut off by several Orcs as well, having to fight his way through them while the riders swarmed around them, attacking the Orcs from all sides.

 

The fighting was fierce; Elrohir knew that they had unwittingly provided the point the Orcs attacked first, allowing the riders to encircle them. He fought with all his strength, swiftly cutting through those coming too close, his entire world narrowing on the fighting, on stabs and parries, on kicks and blocks; he did not notice how the ground under their very feet became murky with blood as bodies piled left and right. There was only the blade and more Orcs coming.

 

Anvari had stood alone, cut off by several Orcs forced to fight it out where he stood. Luckily the riders prevented the Orcs from solely focusing on him. A number of them had dismounted to engage the Orcs on foot. Anvari ducked under an attack, ramming the sword into the Orc’s belly, yanking it free he had to block the next attack by a towering Orc, he moved to the side, faster than the Orc could react and stabbed him into the side. He saw one of the dismounted riders cornered by three of the huge Orcs and threw his dagger at the one in the rider’s back. With a short sprint he covered the distance between them, just in time as some more closed in. He saw a gesture, maybe a command he could not decipher, maybe a thanks just before they found themselves back to back against the Orcs rushing against them.

 

The last few of the Orcs tried to flee when they saw most of their comrades killed, they tried to run into the forest but most were cut down by the rider’s before they could even reach the shadow of the forest’s edge. Anvari yanked Stormfire free of another corpse, the dragontooth-hilt was warm under his hands, reverberating softly, and for a moment he had the distinct sense that thousands of leagues away his twin was wielding Winterflame in this very moment. He had not time to focus on it, though, not with a skirmish just abating and with them having no clue whatsoever who had gone raiding Orcs in the middle of the night.

 

The warrior he had fought back to back with said something in a tongue he did not understand, it was a melodious tongue with strong vowels and a rhythm that would lend itself to rhymes or ballads, but Anvari did not understand a word. “I do not speak your tongue,” he said in Westron, while turning around to face the rider.

 

The man towered him easily, standing a little above 6 feet, he looked down at Anvari and took off his helmet. In the pale moonlight his proud features were pale and his light hair appeared silvery. “I said that had I known that the Orcs had snatched children I would have pursued them harder.” He said, his Westron slightly accented with the same tendency to emphasize vowels.

 

Anvari wished keenly Kíli was here, he had all the experience with Menfolk and was usually so at ease around them. “Young though I might be, child I am not,” he replied, sheathing his sword. “my friends and I were hunting these Orcs because they captured two of comrades.”

 

The rider frowned at him. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice stern but not all unfriendly.

 

“Anvari, son of Kíli, at your service,” Anvari responded in the way ingrained in him, though the words felt like a stab. He had always been closer to Kíli than to his blood-father, but only now that Fíli had passed from this world he fully felt the word’s impact. He did not allow himself to dwell on it, but kept his focus on the man opposite of him.

 

The other riders escorted Aragorn and Elrohir towards them, they carried torches, casting a warmer light into the darkness than the eerie light of the first spring moon. The rider’s eyes stayed on Anvari. “I am Éomer, Éomund’s son,” his eyes went to the others. “and what brings a Man, and Elf and… a dwarf to this land?”

 

Anvari cast a glance to Aragorn – this was his folk, he probably knew them best. The Ranger gave him a slight nod, before turning to Éomer. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and this is Elrohir of Rivendell. We were hunting these Orcs – and those of their number who are still on their way to Isengard.”

 

“Your drwarven friend said as much,” Éomer said impatiently. “but hunting Orcs on foot is a poor chase indeed, you would have lost them before long.”

 

“We have been hunting them for four days and nights since they raided us on Amon Hen and we have been gaining on them,” Anvari growled, slightly annoyed. “we only wanted to sneak up on them – to see if this group had our friends and then go on. Your little raid cost us more time than our feet did.”

 

Éomer stepped closer, towering over Anvari. “I hunt these Orcs for the very same reason – one of their groups carries a captive very dear to all of Rohan, and I will not be delayed by debating your errand with you. Tell me who it is they captured from your group and I may decide to free them too when we catch with them.”

 

Aragorn stepped between them, before Anvari could react. “I fear the Orcs are bringing our friends to Isengard swiftly, they parted their group earlier in the night, mayhap they might carry your friend too. Who is it that they took from your people?”

 

It seemed that Aragorn’s very presence calmed Éomer because he stepped back and gave up on his threatening pose. “There are several groups of them on the plains – all moving towards Isengard. One of them carries Prince Theodred of Rohan, who fell into their hands by treachery.” His face was pale and grim as he spoke. “His father will not – cannot – allow pursuit as long as his only child is in the hands of Saruman – my riders and I are all of those who will still try to save Rohan from his clutches, though banishment is the price of that.”

 

“Treachery indeed,” Elrohir said softly, exchanging a quick glance with Aragorn. “if this night will give three scions of mighty houses in the hands of Saruman the White.”

 

“Whom did they capture so far north?” Éomer broke through his musings, calling out orders to his riders who were already piling up the corpses of the dead Orcs.

 

“One of the captives of the Orcs is Boromir of Gondor, Éomer, the other is Prince Kíli of the dwarven kingdom of Erebor.” Aragorn replied to the question. “Up till now we believed it dark luck that they were captured and none other…”

 

“But now it may give three kingdoms into the hand of the wizard,” Éomer grumbled. “it is ill news indeed that Boromir of Gondor is in their hands. I doubt that his father will easily give in to Saruman’s demands, but who knows what kind of pressure the wizard may bring to bear?”

 

“Not if we free them first,” Aragorn said firmly. “if we hurry we may reach the Orcs before they can come into the reach of Isengard itself.”

 

For a moment Éomer was silent, studying all three of them intensely. “It is a strange day, that we should find ourselves allied with legends of the past,” he said eventually. “but all enemies of the White Wizard are our friends in this hour.”

 

TRB

 

Shakurán had landed the Drakhár in the shadow of the Mountains, the winged lizard was injured from an elven arrow that had only just missed a deathly hit. The fell beast had been less lucky; Shakurán had heard the shriek and seen the corpse tumble towards the grounds, unable to do anything. Which landed the entire mission on his shoulders, not that the fall of the beast could have killed the rider – but a shapeless return to Minas Morgul would take more time than they had, not to mention that the Witch King’s attentions would be needed on the war effort as much as on this little treachery.

 

After cutting the arrow from the Drakhár’s scales he released the beast into the wilds, it would hunt and feed, heal and wait for the call. Drawing his cloak more tightly around his shoulders the Easterling warrior strode downhill towards the rushing water of the river Isen where he was supposed to meet with Saruman’s servant. The White Wizard rarely deigned to communicate with Mordor’s messengers himself, sending his right hand man to deal with them most of the time. It was the same right hand man who had sent the original report that his Master had word of the group that had escaped from Moria.

 

What Shakurán knew of said servant was sketchy at best – it was a man of Rohan, who seemed to have been in the service of Saruman for the last twenty odd years, his creature and errand boy, at least which was the assessment passed on by their own spies in the region. Knowing how few spies they had in the horsemaster’s land Shakurán knew better than to take the reports at face value. He carefully approached the meeting point – a river bend in the shadow of a few Arl trees. The moon shone coolly on the nightly river, though the silvery guardian of the skies was already low above the horizon and would soon fade into the dawn of a new morning. The receding light revealed a crouched figure close to the waters, bend close to the surface of the stream. Shakurán moved silently, careful as he approached, watching the stranger, who was unaware of his presence.

 

“What do I do?” the stranger whispered, speaking to himself – to the night, to no one. “He has yet to tell me that he has changed sides anew, but I know he is treacherous again… and he has betrayed me too. Ha! He cannot betray me, he owed me no loyalty. But he took… he took the young Lord… what do I do? What would you do, Aéonar?”

 

“No one can tell a man what to do – he can only decide for himself,” Shakurán said out loud, as he lit a torch to see more than what the light of the moon would reveal. “and many a secret was given away because someone entrusted his soul to a river, or a fireplace and was overheard.”

 

The other man jumped up, the hood of his heavy cloak falling back, revealing a pale face framed by dark locks. “It is dangerous to sneak around here,” he said sharply. “even for a messenger of the East.”

 

“Gríma, I take it? I am Shakurán of the Night Wings,” The new rank still felt strange to Shakurán himself, he had been with the Shade Fists for so long that his new place felt almost foreign to him. “and I did not spot anyone close by while approaching this place.”

 

“Yes, I am Gríma son of Gálmód,” was the response, Shakurán stepped closer, raising the torch. This man was a strange one – his tongue clearly heralded him as a man of Rohan, with the rolling accent that was so typical for them, but his looks did not match. His hair was black and heavy, his eyes too were not of green or blue colors, like the Rohirrim usually sported, but they were dark grey, with the pale complexion and too fine facial bones, he appeared as anything but a man of Rohan. _Halfblood_ , Shakurán concluded, wondering if the other half was of Gondor or Dunland. “I was told to expect one of the Riders.” Gríma went on, his posture was ducked and he shied a step away from Shakurán.

 

“The Riders cannot take care of all the messes happening to our allies,” Shakurán would not tell him that the Nazgûl steed had been shot by an elven arrow. “and by the way you are cowering you might be lucky to having only to report to me – the Riders are rarely patient and their punishments are fierce.”

 

Gríma laughed, a grim, joyless laugh. “I fear no pain, Easterling, all your Nazgûl could do is killing me in the end.”

 

There was a strange echo of strength, of lost pride in that voice; Shakurán could see the traces of a stronger man shine through the appearance of the broken wretch he was confronted with. So this Gríma had some potential, which could be good. “And you would welcome an end to your existence, I see.” He observed, reading into the tone of voice what had been all too clearly there. “Did your Master lose the trail again?”

 

“No, he did not – if he wants something he usually gets it,” Gríma shook his head. “and I foolishly believed he was hunting them for you, because he swore allegiance to the Great Lord after all…”

 

Shakurán’s mind swiftly put the pieces together. “And like a good, loyal servant you sent the report to Minas Morgul… but your Master has been rethinking his allegiance, has he?”

 

Gríma looked up. “He is his own Master now, he betrayed the Great Lord as casually as he betrayed his former Masters in the West… I should have seen, should have guessed… but he swore an oath to the Lord of Barad-Dûr…”

 

Now Shakurán smiled, whatever else this Gríma was, he was a man of Rohan in character – he believed that a word once given could not be broken, that an alliance once made could not be rescinded. A treacherous Master should beware a loyal servant it seemed. “So, Saruman hunted them, successfully I assume and you came to realize he is not on our side any more. Then why are you here, Gríma?” Shakurán leaned back against a tree; there were times when it was easier to get answer by just talking, by not threatening, by being unassuming. “As far as I know, your allegiance is either to Saruman or maybe to your Horse-King, but you certainly are not a Shadow-friend, nor sworn to the Great Lord.”

 

“Do not try to understand my allegiances, Easterling, they are too complicated for you,” Gríma snapped, anger rising in his eyes. “I am here because… because Saruman has yet to tell that he switched sides, or to order me to stop giving you reports. He forgot about me, or about what he ordered me to do.”

 

“So you do harm to him without breaking your word to him,” Shakurán wondered what was driving this man – he certainly was walking on a twisting path. There was hatred for Saruman in his eyes, but the way he had looked when Shakurán had mentioned the Horse King had not been friendly either. “you want him to stumble… yet you do not dare to turn on him.”

 

Faster than a viper Gríma’s hand shot foreward and grasped Shakurán’s wrist. “Think of me whatever you like, Easterling, hate me, despise me, I do not care,” he hissed. “I once gave my word to Saruman – and I cannot break that vow, much as I would want to. But he took captives… one captive I care for. So if I can foil his plans without breaking the vow, I will do it. Call me a cretin for that, but at least I know whom I want to protect.”

 

There was a wealth of self-loathing and of anger in those eyes. Shakurán had reigned in his reflexes that prompted him to break the grip and toss the attacker down. Instead he reached for the hand at his wrist with his free left and almost gently loosened the grip on his sword hand. “Steady, Gríma, my orders may pertain some Halflings, but they said nothing about captives from your people. So maybe we can help each other? You help me to get into Isengard and to find out what captives your Master has – and when I take them, I will free the one who is important to you as well.” Shakurán kept his voice calm, friendly – this man was used to being degraded, he could see that. A dog kicked too often would easily respond to some friendliness, if it was genuine enough.

 

“Why would you help me?” Gríma relaxed, his shoulders sagged. “It seems a bitter irony indeed that you should care.”

 

Now Shakurán hid a smile. “Because if Saruman truly is a traitor to my Lord, any damage I can do him, will be a good strike against his plans. I have no hope to take him down all on my own – but where I can weaken him, I will.” He could see he had won, for Gríma’s eyes shone with a weird smile – Shakurán had made his first ally in this nest of treachery. Now he would have to see how to secure the Halflings, and create some chaos in Saruman’s plannings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes
> 
> *drops down in a corner* Okay, much of this chapter was plotted out in between color pots and brushes, and I wrote it while still being a bit tired. I hope it’s still fun for all of you. *hugs*


	17. Shreds of truth

Boromir heard the whistle of the whip in the air before the black leather curled around Kíli’s neck leaving another angry red gash, during the last four days Uglúk had taken to mainly punishing Kíli whenever they got too slow. Gritting his teeth Boromir shifted his weight on his left leg, hoping it would not give in under him. His right leg was a bloody mess and he did not look at it, on the second night Kíli had talked Uglúk into allowing him to bandage the wounds there, but Boromir still had a hard time to walk. A moment later he felt Kíli’s strong grip supporting him, helping him to stay on his feet. “Not much further,” the dwarf’s voice was low, the words only meant for Boromir.

 

Leaning on Kíli’s strong shoulder Boromir looked ahead, seeing that Kíli was right – they had arrived at Narn Curunîr, the valley of Isengard spreading before them. Not that this was any good news, with Saruman awaiting them. Another lash of the whip spurred them to walk faster again, Uglúk drove his troop over the last mile towards the walls of Orthanc like he had driven them all across the plains of Rohan. Each step sent fresh spikes of pain through Boromir’s legs, but he disregarded the injury like he had in the days that lay behind them – how he had managed to run all the way from Rauros to Isengard he could hardly tell. But for Kíli’s support he’d have been dead long ago – which might be the better choice all things considered.

 

When they reached the outer wall of Isengard and were driven through the gate and across a bride, Boromir gasped. Orthanc had once been surrounded by gardens of the most immaculate beauty, but now they were gone. Instead pits spread all around and the hammering of forges and smell of hot iron rose from the deeps below and Orcs were hastening to and fro, driving the threadmills and treadwheels. If Boromir had harbored any doubts about Saruman’s new allegiances this would have given him all the answer he needed: only allies of the Shadow surrounded themselves with Orcs and other foul creatures.

 

“Stop there, you maggots!” Another tall Orc – taller than even Uglúk shouted at them as they entered a deep yard in the very shadow of Orthanc – shouted at them, waving a huge glaive. Boromir was grateful for the halt, he felt his knees buckle, and again it was Kíli’s strong grip preventing him from collapsing. “What are you bringing, Uglúk, and what of these Mountain Maggots?” The Orc with the glaive went on in his guttural tongue.

 

“Captives for the White Hand, Mauhúr,” Uglúk strode forward. “Saruman wants them and the answers they have. The others we recruited up North to fill up our numbers. We lost Grishnák that little Morgul rat in sight of the Horsemen, may they eat him alive!”

 

“So they are what the White Hands wants?” Mauhúr eyed Kíli and Boromir distrustfully, his glaive still raised. “Why didn’t you tie up that dwarf better, Uglúk?”

 

“I needed him to drag the great warrior along, or the Horsemen would have gotten us first. And now shut it, Mauhúr!” Uglúk bellowed. “I will make my report to the White Hand and see you whipped for your insubordination after.”

 

Mauhúr grinned at him. “Maybe, maybe not. I already send Orloc to announce your arrival.” Boromir watched the interchange between the Orcs, strife in their ranks was nothing new, inside an ordinary company of them were at least a dozen lethal squabbles to be found. Left to their own devices they easily ended up killing each other – which was the main reason why Mordor had Men hold command over the Orcs, but it seemed Saruman believed he could do without such a controlling element.

 

“What do you have me disturbed, Mauhúr?” A calm, commanding voice came from the door of the tower, sending a shiver through Boromir. Saruman was here, he walked into the yard with the air of a man absolutely in command of the situation. Even his voice was a relief after the Orc’s snapping and shouting. Boromir closed his eyes, focusing, remembering his father’s words on Mithrandir and Saruman. _I do not trust Mithrandir and neither do I trust Saruman – only that with Saruman I know more clearly where I stand. Both wizards serve agendas that we do not know, and they both assume to know the plan for this world. We all are but tools for them to bring about a fate they have determined for this world._  

 

“Uglúk has returned, my Lord, says he brought the captives you ordered found, the Halflings.” Mauhúr cast a sideway glance at them again.

 

Saruman stopped, his eyes falling on them and Boromir could see fury, anger reflected in them for the barest fracture of a moment, before the wizard’s mien shuttered again. “You fool, Uglúk,” he snapped, “do these look like Halflings to you, you dumb beast?”

 

“There were no Halflings anywhere near them, my Lord,” Uglúk’s voice was defensive with an edge of panic echoing in it. “and they can be made talk, tell where the Halflings are hiding.”

 

“Mauhúr, put Uglúk in chains and have him whipped within an inch of his life,” Saruman ordered coolly, “he has inconvenienced me, Lugdush – you are now in command of this fist.”

 

“If one orders an Orc to hunt a dear, one should not be surprised when he brings a kettle of rat’s stew for dinner,” Boromir knew he was practically quoting Shakurán, but it was all too true.

 

Saruman turned around, his gaze falling on Boromir with a penetrating intensity, until Boromir was forced to avert his gaze. Slowly the white wizard came closer, frowning slightly. “Boromir of Gondor,” he said his voice gentle and pleasant. “had I known that it was you these Orcs found… I shall see them punished appropriately.”

 

“Punished for bringing the wrong captives, how merciful,” Kíli growled, his deep voice resonating with contempt. “your methods are truly worthy of your servants.”

 

Looking down at the dwarf Saruman’s mien never faltered. “Kíli, son of Thorin, it seems your House has a penchant for becoming Orc slaves – a place that suits you.” He waved his hand for one of the Orcs. “Lugdush – remove this creature.”

 

“My healers will take care of your wounds, Boromir of Gondor and see you well rested before we take council on the unfortunate situation of the world,” When Saruman spoke to Boromir again his voice was warm and smooth, sounding so reasonable, even caring.

 

Still Boromir did not let go of Kíli’s shoulder. “If you throw my friend into the dungeons, send me there as well, Wizard. I have nothing to say to a traitor.”

 

“Friend?” Saruman’s voice sounded almost deploring. “You call this creature a friend? Oh, Boromir of Gondor, you have no idea what kind of thing is walking beside you.” He gestured at the Orcs again. “What are you waiting for? Or do you want to share Uglúk’s punishment?”

 

Three Orcs grabbed Boromir, dragging him towards the tower’s entrance, while another group dragged Kíli in the opposite direction, towards the pits. The last Boromir saw of Kíli was a short shaking of the head, the quiet request to not try and struggle and get himself killed.

 

TRB

 

The next morning found Boromir in a narrow chamber inside Orthanc, his wounds had been treated and were healing swiftly and he had slept for long hours after the healers had forced him to swallow a bitter draught. Physically he was much better than he had been only a day before, but that did nothing to alleviate his worries. He tried to listen into the bond, the link he shared with Kíli but outside the dwarf’s steady presence he could not sense much. Either Kíli did not feel much in this moment or he was blocking the emotions from reaching Boromir, a skill he had demonstrated to have before.

 

The door of the room swung open and Saruman appeared inside the doorway. “You are healed, I am glad to see.” He said with a slight smile. “Though there was little doubt that a man of such strength would not be held back by his wounds for long.”

 

Rising from the bed he had sat on, Boromir crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Are you making your morning rounds with your captives, Saruman, or have your Orcs ceased to make messes you can punish them for?”

 

“Why must you see yourself as a captive here, Boromir?” Saruman shook his head like a long misunderstood teacher. “I brought you here for I fear that you have become entangled into plots that you hardly can understand, and because I worry for your homeland and your noble father.”

 

“In my experience a man who cannot leave his room is a captive,” Boromir tried to not listen to the musical tones of the voice, but it was hard to not notice the wise and noble way Saruman’s words sounded. “and the only plot I was entangled in was returning to my homeland.”

 

“Ah… so you were not travelling with the company of my old friend Mithrandir?” Saruman sounded bemused. “He always had a penchant to recruit the strangest people for his wild schemes and with little regard for those who suffered from his plots. Your people have felt his callous disregard before.”

 

Now Boromir wondered what the wizard was even talking about, if he hoped to get anywhere with subtle references he had the wrong son of Denethor. “Mithrandir has been twice to Gondor in the last decades – and the only callous disregard he showed was for the librarian’s nerves, if that were the greatest danger Gondor had to worry about, it would be a much better world.”

 

Saruman chuckled amused. “I am forgetting that I am talking to a warrior, not another wizard. We tend to speak in riddles, it gets annoying after a while, does it?” He paced back and forth, clearly not expecting an answer, then he suddenly stopped and looked Boromir in the eye. “You truly do not know, do you?”

 

“Know what?” Boromir asked impatiently, he hated riddles with a passion. “Did Gandalf turn one of the librarians into a quill?” He hoped that Saruman would lose his temper, but he was sorely disappointed because the White Wizard looked at him sadly.

 

“No, Boromir, his and his cronies’ crimes against your people are much deeper. They are the ones who forced your people into a war that has now raged for two generations.”

 

The words were like a slap to the face and Boromir hardly knew how to react. It couldn’t be… it had to be a lie. “Don’t you mix up Mithrandir and Sauron here?” he challenged Saruman. “For he is the one who declared war on my people.”

 

“It is sad to see you truly do not know the truth,” Saruman said, gesturing to the door. “let us reconvene in my study and shall share with you how the war that your people have been fighting came about.”

 

Boromir did not budge, but remained standing where he was. “I have no interest in hearing your lies, or your flatteries, wizard.” He spat. “Not when you are keeping my friend in your dungeons.”

 

Again Saruman did not react to his anger. “Are you so afraid of the truth, Boromir? Do you truly fear to learn what befell your people?” He sighed. “You will see your friend before the day is out, you have my word on that.”

 

A part of Boromir warned him to listen, but a much greater part in him wondered what schemes his people had fallen prey to. His father had his reasons to distrust Mithrandir, and maybe there was even more than he had ever known. Pushing away from the place where he had been standing, Boromir followed Saruman out of the room. “I will hold you to that,” he said, much like he was not a prisoner but speaking on eye-level to the wizard.

 

TRB

 

Saruman’s study was at the very top of the tower and reminded Boromir vividly of his own father’s study – a room stuffed with scrolls and books, maps on the walls and some kind of script littering nearly every single space on the desk. Only that at the very heart of the room stood a familiar looking stone pedestal covered by a silver and blue cloth of silk. He avoided looking at the pedestal, if Saruman had mastered that artifact he would not need any answers from them – because he could see where Frodo was. Or could he? Faramir’s spectacular successes with the seeing stone came from combining his natural foresight with the abilities of the seeing stone. Maybe Saruman lacked that quality?

 

The Wizard sat down at the desk, pointing to a chair opposite of him. “It is a long tale, I have to tell, Boromir – it began eighty years ago. I had learned that two of my colleagues had turned their attention to Dol Guldur, the Hill of Sorcery in Southern Mirkwood. I had long been aware of what evil was dwelling there, but it was contained inside the reaches of the great woodlands and I deemed the Elven Realm, the only land in vicinity, strong enough to outlast the darkness.”

 

“Sauron was dwelling in Mirkwood, separated from his legions and his power base?” Boromir asked impulsively, his eyes straying to a map on the wall that depicted Wilderland.

 

“Indeed, and while his servants were aware of his locations, his access to his most loyal minions and his powerful legions was limited. I deemed this the best situation for the moment, where he could do the least harm. Unfortunately Mithrandir and Radagast were of different opinion – their care for this world was always one-sided. Radagast only cared for the beasts of the woodlands and Mithrandir has always favored the Elves over all other peoples. And so he forged a plot – calling on a house all too willing to lend their hand, he created a company of dwarves that would attempt to destroy the dragon on Erebor.” Saruman sighed. “It was a distraction, obviously, but one that hardly anyone failed to notice. I tried to prevent it – speaking against it in Council and going as far as trying to speak to the dwarven leader in person, to warn him – Mithrandir might have set the quest in motion but he hardly expected them to survive. But I was prevented from doing so – and I doubt they dwarves would have listened, they were convinced of Mithrandir’s plan. For what reason Mithrandir send the Halfling with them I cannot guess, except maybe as his eyes and ears.”

 

“If I am not mistaken that Mountain was the dwarven homeland,” Boromir pointed out. “they wanted to retake their home, the situation with the displaced dwarves has left some traces in the archives of Gondor that even I have not failed to miss.”

 

Saruman shook his head. “While their situation had indeed been dire during the beginning of their Exile, they had eventually settled in the Ered Luin, an even older homeland of their kind. Ask your dwarf companion later – he loved his life in Eriador. Still, they went with Mithrandir’s plan and I dare say that that summer all eyes were directed at Erebor, awaiting what would happen. And the dwarves would not disappoint, the stirred up trouble in the Woodland realm, caused a stir under the Mountains and in the end provoked a mighty battle at the very gates of Erebor. And while even Sauron himself was distracted, Mithrandir and Radagast struck, helped by the Elves of Lothlorien.”

 

He rose and joined Boromir who still stood studying the map. “All they achieved was to drive Sauron’s spirit from Dol Guldur, and while they still congratulated themselves on their victory, the Enemy returned to Barad-Dûr, declaring himself shortly after, plunging your people into war. And for what? To protect a few Elves from his minor shadow. Did Mithrandir ever try to aid your people in the war? Did he ever convince the Elves to give you assistance? No… he left you alone to face the Shadow.”

 

Boromir closed his eyes, trying not to react to the words. Could it be true? Was this how Sauron had returned to Mordor, where he unleashed the long war again? Had he been driven back there by those who would care little for what happened to Gondor? Had Kíli… had Kíli helped bring this fate about? Through the bond he suddenly felt Kíli’s comforting presence; his friend was sensing his inner turmoil and reaching for him. “The war would have come anyway, sooner or later the Shadow would have begun a new war either way,” he replied, though his own voice sounded rough when he spoke it loud. “and wishing to delay it, would only mean to say ‘I do not want to suffer and I do not care if my grandchildren will suffer.’ I’d rather fight my own battles.”

 

“Strong, proud, more forgiving than Mithrandir and his helpers deserve,” Saruman smiled, seemingly unriled by the refusal to take the bait. “but what of now, Boromir? Whom will he sacrifice this time to carry out his schemes? Your people are the ones who will bear the brunt of Sauron’s forces assault, and what might be left will be softened up for the Return of the King he has been scheming for so long. Only Isildur’s Bane could change your people’s fate.”

 

The Ring, now they came to the true objective of all this. Saruman’s true objective, as far as Boromir knew. He looked up, meeting the wizard’s eyes. “I do not know where the Ring is.” He said with conviction, and it was the truth, he did not know where it might be now, nor where Frodo and the others were by now.

 

And Saruman could hear the truth in his words, for his eyes narrowed and then his face became stern. “The truth unfortunately,” he observed.

 

Before he could speak on, Boromir felt a searing pain from Kíli’s end of the bond – a whip. He focused, reaching out for his friend, trying to support him as a series of fiery lashes came down on him. His knees almost buckled, for the pain was intense, but together they were stronger than the Orc’s abuse. Boromir realized that Kíli must have blocked the pain from reaching him until he had tried to comfort him only moments ago.

 

“What is this?” Saruman had grasped Boromir’s arm, his eyes boring into Boromir’s gaze. “A bond… a means to cheat fate itself…” the wizard whispered. “and here I thought you would be of no further use for me.”

 

“I do not know what you speak of,” Boromir snapped, breaking away from the grip of the wizard, feeling befouled by even the slightest touch.

 

Saruman had turned to the Orcs guarding the door. “Bring the dwarf here – at once.” He ordered, before turning back to Boromir. “You found a way to cheat fate itself – I overlooked it before, but now I see it clearly. And I will have it from you, all there is to know.” His eyes glowed in a fierce, terrible will, and Boromir wondered what kind of power the wizard might have sensed in them.

 

The Orcs dragged Kíli into the study, the dwarf’s upper body was bare and marked by lashes and clawmarks – Boromir shuddered, he knew the signs of Orc affection all too well. He was relieved to see Kíli was still standing and apparently unbroken. Saruman gestured at the Orcs who grabbed Kíli’s swordarm, pulling it up for him to examine. The wizard studied the shining dragonmark burning on the skin for a few silent minutes, before turning to Boromir. He needed no violence here, Boromir found himself unable to move, as Saruman examined the mark on his arm as well.

 

“They must have told you the legend of Durin II, or maybe of Frérin Dragonsbane?” he asked thoughtfully, as he let go of Boromir’s arm again. “Ingenious I must admit – tying you tightly into their webs and using the power you give them to cheat fate itself. Clever. I had always wondered… Thorin was not meant to live, let alone ascend the throne under the Mountain. Mithrandir knew this… he saw the signs as much as I did, and he knew that Thorin’s ‘heirs’ were not meant to follow him, except to an early grave. But it seems the dwarves found a way to cheat destiny itself… using you.”

 

“And here I thought that Radagast was talking gibberish,” Kíli growled, his deep voice aggressive. “but he is downright clear and to the point compared to you.”

 

As Boromir looked at the dwarf, who was still held down by two Orcs, he could see something wild and dangerous in those black eyes, a rage that was hardly tamed – and that was wilder than any beast’s rage. He hardly recognized Kíli in this moment, or maybe he had never truly known him?

 

Saruman smiled grandfatherly. “Look at this creature, Boromir – what do you truly know of him?” The White Wizard walked through the room, casting a disdainful glance at the dwarf, restrained by the Orcs. “The son of an exiled Prince who could not constrain his lust and lay with a black dwarf, siring a son upon her, the mother vanished conveniently after giving birth and he was raised by his aunt under the guise of a nephew. His own father preferred his nephew – the ‘older brother’ – as an heir, much disappointed with his own spawn.”

 

Gliding closer to Kíli Saruman touched Kíli’s chest with his hand and the dwarf convulsed in pain, a hoarse scream tearing from his throat, it took no more than the simple touch of the white Hand to reduce him to a quivering mass of pain and screams. “And now you will confess how you wove that enchantment,” Saruman said softly. “it has to be of your making… as your victim is hardly capable to know a spell when he meets it in the market. So tell me – how did you cheat fate?”

 

Kíli panted hard when the hand was removed, sweat glistened on his muscles and seeped into the fresh gashes on his back. “You know, Saruman… I thought you knew the old story,” his voice was hard, rough but he pushed the words out. “Fate comes to Belegost and asks for a certain warrior. Good fate, bad fate, who knows? The warrior does not want to risk it and joins a group of warriors that go to fight the Goblins in the Misty Mountains. When Fate asks the city guard for him, the guards tell fate where he went and Fate smiles. ‘Now I understand,’ she said. ‘I had begun to worry, for I have an appointment with that warrior in Goblin Town in a few weeks. But now it is all clear.”

 

It was the first time Boromir saw any sign of anger in Saruman, the wizard angrily slapped the dwarf and again touched his chest, sending fresh agony through him. Boromir felt it too, reaching deep into the bond to help Kíli, he could not alleviate the pain but share it, much like Kíli had shared his suffering in Minas Morgul.

 

Abruptly Saruman ended his torment whirling around to face Boromir. “So you are aware of what you share with him – though you fail to understand it yet.” He said. “So used… so tricked. You even try to aid the very creature that I am trying to free you from.”

 

“I have enough of your lies,” Boromir wanted to strangle that wizard, he had enough of his games, of his sick tricks.

 

“Lies? All I have told you is the truth,” Saruman leaned on his staff. “but ‘tis is my mistake, Men do not hear the truth, they need to see it, to live it, to understand what truth is.” He walked to the pedestal in the middle of the room and slowly removed the cloth from the shining orb at the heart.

 

Boromir braced himself. “I won’t look into that thing,” he said firmly, he could not, he must not. He had seen the price it extracted from Faramir, from his father and he had always heeded their warning to not look inside the seeing stone.

 

“The Palantri do not lie, all they can show is the truth – and it is time, that you learned the truth about yourself,” Saruman said, his eyes sparkling in triumph. “that you come to see the truth about your bond to your ‘friend’. You will never understand me, if you remain ignorant.”

 

Two Orcs pushed Boromir forward, until he stood at the table. Saruman’s pale hand touched the orb and it began to glow softly. Almost against his will Boromir’s eyes were drawn to the light inside the orb. He did not want to, but he could not even close his eyes, his entire body locked into place. And from the orb, pictures rose.

 

_“That’_ _ll send all the Orcs running home to Mount Gundabad.” Dwalin laughed uproariously. The old warrior was more than pleased with the outcome of the recent battle. Fighting their way through the halls and caverns had been a tough task, but the Orcs were leaderless and whatever they could mount as a resistance was not enough to deter the Dwarves. The bare-headed warrior grinned up at him. “You aren't half bad. We'll make a Dwarf of you yet!”_

_Boromir laughed. “I_ _’_ _d prefer to not be cut in half, Dwalin.” He sheathed his sword and followed the Dwarven war-leader through the freshly cleansed halls, the corpses had been removed and the dirt and grime they had left scrubbed away. These halls were looking like they had not been in centuries. “Where are we going?”_

_“The city proper,” Dwalin explained. “No one has been in there since Khazâd-dûm fell. Only Durin’_ _s blood may open these Gates. Moria is more than just mines and a maze of workshops.”_

_“Dwarrowdelf.” Boromir preferred the Man to the Elven word_ Moria _. Moria would always remind him of dark things, of the dark pit it named, home of the nameless horror of shadow and flame, but Dwarrowdelf… Dwarrowdelf was something else entirely, it was this sprawling underground city, a place of lights and lanterns,   a dream they were recapturing step by step A place that would one day be the city of lights again. “I recall when I saw that place from afar, only for a moment, reflected in the light of a broken crystal lamp.”_

_“Aye, he mentioned that once,” Dwalin replied. They walked through halls where lamps had been relit or torches replaced them for the time being._

_In the grand circular hall, domed by a ceiling so high it was hardly visible in the firelights, Dwarven troops were still cleaning away Orc corpses. Later, the population would follow the warriors in their advance and clean away the filth and rubbish the Goblins had left behind.   Boromir could well imagine what Brea daughter of Briga, the acting speaker of the populace, would say. It would most likely involve water, sand, and scrubbing until the Orc stench never dared return to the halls of Kings.._

_“Dwalin, Boromir.” Kili, who had been speaking with the aforementioned Dwarf lady, turned and walked up to them. “I feared we had another Orc pocket on our hands when you did not come.”_

_Dwalin grinned. “They ran like rabbits. I had to find our Gondorian friend here first before meeting with you.” He gave Boromir an affectionate slap on the back._

_The three of them walked up to the huge stone wall north of the hall. When he stood before the seemingly empty wall, Kili turned around to them. “We_ _’_ _re here, lad.” Dwalin_ _’_ _s voice held a wealth of warmth. After the long way he had gone with Kili's family, this moment meant much to him. With Dwalin and Boromir at his side, Kili spoke the secret words to open the forgotten gates of Dwarrowdelf._

 

Shaking Boromir tried to strafe off the pictures, but he could not deny them. They were so real… they felt real, they felt more real than some of his own memories. A light swirled inside the orb, shaped like a many layered star shining in gold. It drew Boromir in, not allowing his mind to stray any longer. The pictures came again, stronger and more powerful until he finally passed out.

 


	18. A time for steel

„Throw their bodies down the wall, then re-arm the traps,” Frérin did not need to see the speaker to recognize Asutri’s voice as he came down to the gauntlet behind Icewind gate. The fighting had shifted to the Northern gate of the Mountain in the last week and he knew he’d find Asutri always where the fighting was hardest. His eyes searched the warriors flooding down towards the gauntlet for the familiar figure with the blond mane and the black steel armor. Asutri usually stood out in a group and he did not try to hide at all, he had been raised to do so, to lead openly, to accept the dangers that came with it.

 

When Frérin did not find him on the first glance he swiftly went back up to the battlements, where the fighting had been heavy. Warriors were still busy removing corpses and wounded from the walls. And there he found him – squatted down beside a wounded fighter, one hand on the fighter’s shoulders, trying to calm the painful shakes the dwarf was in. “That was quite the trick, Gárm,” Frérin heard Asutri say, before he waved two of the other warriors over. “see him brought to the healers swiftly, or he’ll bleed out.”

 

The two took the order without any debates and carried the wounded dwarrow down to the healers. Frérin watched as Asutri went on across the wall, stopping with injured waiting for help, often having a word of encouragement or comfort for them, never losing sight of the entire clean-up going on. Frérin watched from a distance, not interrupting, was Asutri aware how strongly the warriors reacted to his presence? Most likely not, there was nothing calculated in Asutri’s actions, he treated the troops with the respect they deserved and did what Thorin too would have done. In such moments Frérin could clearly see his brother’s shaping hand in his grandnephew.

 

The last wounded were brought from the wall and the relief troops arrived to take up guard on the wall. Asutri approached their leader. “Gimli, the healers did let you out already?” he asked, a light joke in his voice. “I am glad you are back with us.”

 

“I didn’t let them much choice – they were worse than Óin with his ear trumpet stuffed.” Gimli grumbled, leaning on his axe. “How bad is it going up here?”

 

“We had some problems bottling them up in the gauntlet stairs over there,” Asutri pointed the direction, “it was the traps that saved us this time. But now they know the traps are there. Can you take a look at the stairs for me and see if we can block them more permanently?”

 

“I’ll look into it right away, my Lord,” Gimli replied, returning to more formal speech. The moment Asutri left, he had his fighters spread out along the wall while he went to inspect the problem point in the defenses.

 

Asutri walked up to Frérin, he must have spotted him earlier. “Any bad news from the main gate?” he asked, as they walked down into the gauntlet and away from the gate. The way he walked one might think he was still fresh, only Frérin noticed the subtle signs of tiredness that Asutri showed.

 

“The main gate was calm this time, they tried something new for a change.” Frérin told him, he knew there was no use in trying to soften the blow, in gentle words, Asutri had no patience either. He hated that as much as he hated false hopes. “They tried to use the few fell beasts Dol Guldur send them to reach some of the surface balconies high up – hitting the Scribe’s Well with their attack. The balcony broke under the second fell beast already, and they only got a dozen or so fighters into the main library. The troops had them dealt with swiftly enough – we only lost a few scribes and… Bilbo. He was stabbed by one of them.”

 

Frérin saw how Asutri closed his eyes, becoming still for a moment, he always did that when he got bad news. “Mahal receive him gently,” he whispered, before looking up again. “Have someone move his body to the crypt of the dragon heroes – he is to rest with his comrades of old.”

 

“I knew Thorin’s wishes regarding that and had it already done.” Frérin had liked Bilbo – he had been with Kíli during the events in Moria, that alone had earned the Halfling Frérin’s respect. And he knew that for the youngsters Bilbo had been part of their family, an Uncle who had seen to no small part of their education. Not that he expected a stronger reaction out of Asutri, ever since he had received word that his father had fallen defending the peak, a grim stillness had settled on the young Prince. He had not cried or screamed, there had been no tears, he had gone pale and still, the silent agony much harder to watch than the passionate grief of his mother. Another topic Frérin worried about, Fjalaris had been Fíli’s soulmate and it seemed a miracle that she had managed to hang on for so long already, though how long her soul would endure with her other half passed from the world, was anyone’s guess.

 

On the stairs leading towards the deeper city Asutri stopped. “Thank you,” he reached over to clasp Frérin’s arm.

 

It was that small touch that tore Frérin’s heart, Asutri had been his trainee, his protégée from the time he had returned to the Mountain, there had always been an easy closeness between them. Seeing Asutri suddenly so grown, so much molding into a much older role and still trying to keep some of that bond they had shared, was shaking. And it also told him that something else was on Asutri’s mind. “Something is on your mind,” he observed. “and you usually are not shy to speak of what is worrying you.”

 

Asutri looked around, checking that they were alone. “Frérin, I need to ask something of you – and it is not something easily asked.” He squared his shoulders, tensing visibly. “When you were… in Moria… did you ever learn how the Orcs make their stone fire? The stuff they used to attack our tunnels in the past?”

 

Frérin returned the gesture, clasping Asutri’s shoulder, to silently let him know he was not upset to being asked about his past in Orc hands. He had never lied to his grandnephew about that aspect of his story, they had met only days after Frérin’s escape and much of his finding his way home had been due to a small dwarfling insisting on getting to know his new Uncle. “Aye, I did learn how they make their vile weapon.” He replied. “It takes some precision and steady hands, so they had captives do it whenever they could.”

 

“Good. Do we have what is necessary inside the Mountain?” Asutri’s question rang with new energy, and now that the awkward question was out of the way, he also relaxed again.

 

“Yes, it does not need all that much,” Frérin confirmed, “but why. Asutri, it is a vile weapon, a coward’s weapon of choice… what would you want with it?”

 

Cool eyes, shining like the ice of the peak under a cold moon, met his gaze. “Ask me that when all the pieces are in place, Frérin. Let me know what is needed to make the stone fire – and lots of it, will you?” And in this moment Frérin had the feeling that something had changed, if for good or ill he could not say as of yet.

 

TRB

 

Asutri strode up to the palace halls, greeting the guards with a curt nod, he knew that Kór was shadowing his steps either way. The former captain of the Icehawks had Asutri’s back in every new battle and watched over him when he was not fighting. It was a reassuring presence that Asutri was getting used to. He found Tolá and Aife in a room near the main scriptorium, the older and the younger dwarf woman deeply absorbed into a discussion with Rauthgundis, the mayor of the city. When she saw him Aife extricated herself from the discussion, coming out of the room and into the hall. “Might I have a word with you, Prince Asutri?” she asked.

 

“Of course, Aife,” Asutri led began to walk away from the scriptorium so they could speak unobserved. “is there an issue with the city?”

 

Aife stopped when they were far enough from the others and looked at him. “No, everything is fine with the city.” She said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “my worry is about your sister.” Her frown deepened on her face. “It might not be my place to tell you, but Tóla is on the verge of a collapse. She has to take more and more of your mother’s duties. Mahal have mercy on Fjalaris soul, she is burning alive. But between looking after her mother and taking the duties of a Princess of the Mountain, Tóla is that close to breaking down and I won’t have it. She either needs people to support her, or some duties shifted away from her. I could really hang Brea for leaving with the army…”

 

Asutri smiled slightly at the rant, Aife was a formidable presence in her own right. Formerly a tradeswoman who had led caravans all across Middle Earth, she had remained at the Mountain to fight, when the Siege began. “What about you, you are already helping her a great deal, that’s at least the impression I am having,” he replied, his words indicating that he was fine with Aife speaking up in what should be a family matter.

 

“Me? I am trying to help, because I know my way around Fjalaris and Brea’s organization, but she needs someone to really have her back, to deal with issues that needn’t be escalated to her and who tells her now and then that it is right to sleep or eat.” Aife gestured back to the room. “because she isn’t doing either.”

 

“Sounds like you are the perfect person for that,” Asutri said, forestalling a protest with a raising of his hand. “no, Aife, you are the right person for that task – because Tóla knows you already and knows you well. She will not be forced to wear a mask around you, she will not have to present a front, like she would with a stranger.”

 

Aife sighed. “Very well, my Lord, I shall assist Tóla on her duties for as long as she needs me. But… may I still request that someone take care of your noble mother? She is trying very hard to go on… but she is fading, it is painful to watch and it drags Tóla down almost daily.”

 

“Leave that to me,” Asutri knew Fjalaris was not fading, the pain was burning her and her soul was dragged closer and closer to the Grey. Few survived such a loss, and those who did… many were marked by it for the rest of their lives.

 

TRB

 

The deeps were eerily silent, it was something Bofur had only encountered once – right after the re-taking of the Mountain, when the mines had been empty, lying in silence, waiting for the days the dwarves would return. Ever since the hammering of pickaxes and chisels had rang through the tunnels, along with the rumbling of mining carts and creaking of chains used to drag the heavy loads towards the surface. But all that had gone silent when the Siege began – there were no more miners here anymore, like Bofur they had exchanged the picks against axes, fighting to defend their home.

 

Sometimes Bofur still came down here, into the deeps of the stone and be it only to listen to the silence of the Mountain, to find a measure of calm in the empty mines. He smiled, gently tracing his hand along the rough stone of the winding shaft, he had seen many mines in his life, the secret mines of the Blacklocks hidden away in the reaches of the northern Misty Mountains, the mines in the Ered Luin and some mines in the hills of Arnór, but nothing compared to these deeps. The whisper of the deep stone, the very bones of Arda so close around him, Bofur had not even known what he had been missing since he had left the Blacklock strongholds as a youth. He felt rooted in this place, safely encased in the stone from whence the dwarrow had come and where they would return to sleep when their time ran out.

 

Light steps cut through his thoughts and his hand fell to his heavy axe as he peered around in the darkness. Almost no one ventured down here, could the enemy have snuck into the tunnels? A dancing white fleck of light at the end of another tunnel made him blink – it was the typical shine of a dwarven lantern, the restless moving of the light came to a halt, someone had set the lantern down. Carefully Bofur moved forward, down the winding shaft and towards the actual mining site. The light grew brighter and when he turned around the corner he saw the lantern standing on a stone standing out from the wall, casting a pale light on a single dwarf standing in the semi-circular ending of the tunnel.

 

Bofur bit back a relieved sigh, no intruders, no new Easterling plot, and no danger to contend with. He had recognized the dwarf at once, while the black armor could belong to many a warrior in the Mountain, the glorious golden mane and the longsword across his back belonged to only one person. Silently Bofur wondered why Prince Asutri had come down here, he had been in the thick of the fighting for most of the day, and the day before… and about every day since Prince Fíli had fallen. Carefully Bofur put down the axe, trying to not disturb the Prince, if he had chosen to be alone for a while, he should not be disturbed.

 

Still Bofur could not stop himself from watching him. Over the years he had gotten used to their presence – to Thorin’s powerful, almost overwhelming presence and fierce temper, Fíli’s calm, focused presence and Kíli’s bright flame, he had gotten used to them, to their presence, to working with them, and he would always feel honored that those three had considered him a friend. But it was Asutri that brought back the full truth by whose side Bofur had been walking – within the span of hours from his father’s death he had taken to the leadership of the Mountain, of the war and shown himself up to the task. Bofur had seent that every day he had seen Asutri fight, the fierce youth he had known had transformed into a strong leader, it reminded him a little of Kíli who had grown from a mischievous youth to a dragon slayer in less than a year.

 

“You could always sneak up on people in the deeps, Bofur,” Asutri’s voice cut through his thoughts, he had not turned around but still he knew Bofur was there. “It is almost like the stone itself hides you.”

 

Smiling sheepishly Bofur inclined his head. “I did not mean to intrude, my Prince,” he apologized. Asutri had most likely sought the deep stone to find strength, to recover a little from the fighting, and he should have the rest he needed.

 

Turning around, Asutri closed the distance between them. “No titles, Bofur, not from one of the heroes of the Mountain, not from a friend,” he said warmly but his voice was firm.

 

Bofur felt the heat rise in his cheeks. “It seemed only proper now,” Asutri would be King under the Mountain once the Siege was over, he was not the same boy that had pestered Bofur to show him the deeps. He saw that steady glance that would not budge on what had just been said and sighed. “Mahal… you are worse than Kíli in that regard.”

 

Asutri shook his head. “What Thorin valued most about you, Bofur, was that you were unafraid to speak your mind, to stand up to him when necessary. He knew he could trust you to speak up when he was wrong – and so do I.”

 

Thorin… the thought of him brought a distant sadness to Bofur, he had known Thorin would pass, he had lived up to a ripe age after all. His passing left the feeling of a great loss still. Straightening up Bofur tried to push the sad thoughts away. “I did not know you came here to rest as well,” he tried to steer the conversation to another topic.

 

“Sometimes, the deep stone holds a strength that is beyond words,” Asutri’s eyes traced the dark walls surrounding them. “though I often wish I had Anvari’s love for water and air – he never found the surface so strange, or daunting.” He reached for the lantern, raising it. “Only today… I came not to rest, but to think something through. Something I need your advice on.”

 

“My advice?” Bofur asked surprised. “The mines are at rest until the Siege is over. We do patrol them in case the Easterlings decide to tap into them. But that’s it.”

 

“I know,” Asutri inclined his head, then he pointed south of them. “the black iron shafts and the old southern iron shafts, how far do they reach beyond the Mountain? I think they must reach under the enemy camp in places?”

 

“Aye, that’s why we keep patrolling them. I doubt the Easterlings are aware of that little detail, luckily. Whatever treacheries they may be playing on, they do not seem have informants inside the Mountain.” Bofur doubted that anyone from the Mountain would sell out his people to the eastern invaders, though events with the Iron Hills in the past had taught him caution as well.

 

“Do you think that the tunnels could be expanded to fully reach under their camp?” Asutri asked. “Not just one or two, but at least a dozen, preferably so they come out under different parts of their encampment.”

 

Bofur could sense a plan when he saw one, and visualized the map of the mines, comparing it to the map above. “Very possibly, we already have a lot of the tunnels in place, we just need to expand them a little, or reopen some we closed. If I get the dwarves for it, it could be done in a week or two.”

 

“Good,” Asutri’s eyes shone in a cold blue fire. “we need them to link to the tunnels that lead up to the reach – Hverdanger’s passage and Isgrim’s deep mainly, those are the only ones large enough – and we need the tunnels under the camp to have roughly the same diameter.”

 

“It certainly is doable, but why… why open a road between their camp and the reach, it would allow them to storm…” His eyes widened. “No… you want to send something down, do you?”

 

“Exactly, the Easterlings are not the only ones to play with monsters,” Asutri confirmed his suspicions. “you tell me whom of your miners you need and I will have them freed up from their defense duties.”

 

Bofur did not ask what the plan was – he did not need to ask, he could see it in Asutri. It was time to bring the war back to the invaders, to give them a surprise from which they would not recover swiftly. He almost felt a brush like a gust of wind, like a storm unfurling his angry wings – he had felt it before, when Thorin had charged at Azog, when Thorin had led them into the Battle of the Five Armies… and now Bofur felt it again. He had never doubted they could outlast this Siege… now he was sure that they were going to win their war.

 

TRB

 

Another day of fighting was over and Frérin had not failed to notice the changes in the lineup of the troops at Icewind gate. Most of the miners were gone, replaced with others fighters and some units were out of the fighting for filling up with fresh fighters. He found Asutri speaking to Kór and two older warriors from the Reach. “I hope the artifacts will help to lure them out,” he just said.

 

The oldest fighter from the Reach – Havarn – shook his head. “It will bring out the biggest and fiercest, when they smell so much magic.” He said. “Are you sure about that, my Lord?”

 

“Harvarn, we want the worst, the fiercest Frostwyrms the peak still has.” Asutri said firmly. “Believe me – I know what I am asking of you and I will be up with you when the time comes to bring them down here.”

 

“No!” Kór interjected sharply. “Guiding a Frostwyrm, hypnotized or not is always a deathly task, it will kill the handler even if he is successful at guiding the beast for a while. Were it different we would not have the problems with them in the peak. Those who bring the Frostwyrms will die.”

 

“I know, Kór,” Asutri crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I may have little beyond the formal training, but I will not ask anyone to accept such a task and not do it myself.”

 

“I am sorry to say, my Prince, it will not be possible.” Regin, the third of the warriors spoke up, he was a grizzled fighter with two scars marring his face. “We cannot bring more than twenty of such beasts, given the tunnel situation – and I have three volunteers for each and every of them already, with more waiting for a spot becoming free. Our people have to avenge two Kings and they won’t back down from it.”

 

“Listen to him, laddie,” Havarn said, slipping up on the formalities in the moment. “you are not asking anything of us – it’s what we offer, what we want to do. We have two Kings to call blood vengeance for, and we won’t give the Easterlings the triumph of seeing another of your family fall.”

 

The way Asutri looked down, touched and at a loss for words for the moment, reminded Frérin again of his brother – Thorin certainly had shaped his grandson. When Asutri looked up his face was composed again, only his eyes gave his emotions away. “Your courage will never be forgotten,” he said. “the tunnels will be ready by the end of the week – we will attack in the night of the new moon.”

 

Waiting until Asutri was alone and on the way back to the palace, Frérin caught up to him. “The plan is finished, I take it?” Asutri had shared the full plan with no one, not while working out the details, finding all the pieces, and Frérin felt that Asutri for some reason was almost shy about revealing it. “Will you let me in on it?”

 

“I better do,” Asutri strode along the stairs, the brisk pace belying that he had to be tired. He led Frérin back to the guard room at the palace, that usually served for conferring with the captains of the siege. Unrolling a map of the Mountain and the camp outside, he hesitated again, the pointed at the map. “Bofur’s miners are expanding the old southern tunnels to reach under the camp – they also are reopening the tunnels that were blocked off to prevent intruders from the outside. In the end we will have tunnel ends under all these spots of the enemy camp –,”

 

Frérin saw the marks on the map and bit back a whistle. “Twenty points where our tunnels are under their very feet, spread along all their camp – and they not even knowing it is there. What are you planning to do with it?”

 

“We will fill all tunnel ends with stone fire caskets,” Asutri said, his eyes holding Frérin’s gaze. “you know what it does, it will rip the tunnel ends open, tear apart the very ground under the Easterling’s feet, and once the first shock is over the warriors from the Reach will bring the Frostwyrms, twenty of the worst, wildest they can find out of the tunnels. Holding them in thrall for that long will kill the handlers… but it will place twenty agonized, frenzied Frostwyrms right into the enemy camp. At the same time we use what catapults we can use to set the camp aflame. The fire zone is our borderline…”

 

He pointed at the map of the mountain. “We bring the troops out through the trade gate, the postern and the stair of the skies, three prongs to cut off the camp. No one goes beyond the burning line – but every Easterling trying to get out will be killed by the troops. Once the last Frostwyrm is dead, and I am sure the Easterlings will kill them eventually, we invade the camp and finish what the monsters began.”

 

Frérin studied the map, the layout and a shiver ran down his spine. “One of the tunnels comes up right between their healer’s camp,” he pointed out, tapping one spot of the map.

 

“So what?” Asutri asked. “We better get a big Frostwyrm there – they will commit some extra troops to defend that section of the camp.”

 

“What I mean is, that it will be a bloodbath,” Frérin said somewhat more sharply. “what you are planning here is not a battle, it is slaughter.”

 

“Good. I had not planned on allowing prisoners anyway,” Asutri replied, his mien serious.

 

Frérin’s breath hitched in his throat – never before had he seen Thorin’s handwriting so clearly in Asutri. His grandnephew had the same capacity to love and hate, to be vengeful and hold a grudge, and he certainly had the same rage, only that it was constrained by an iron discipline, but Frérin did not want to see it unleashed. The serious, closed expression and sparkling blue eyes reminded Frérin vividly of Thorin in the years after the dragon came – the quiet rage, the anger and the hate. And again it would fall to him to try and soften the edges, to remind a heart of stone of compassion and a soul of fire of friendship. “Asutri, this plan will lead to wanton slaughter,” he said calmly, trying to not bring anger into this discussion. “If you have our people slaughter them all, slaughter those who are helpless, who are down on the ground… to kill and take no prisoners… beware, Asutri, the place where this course of action leads is very very dark.”

 

Their eyes met, and inside the icy blue eyes of the younger dwarf Frérin saw a spark of warmth, maybe only an echo of it, but it was there, half buried under the steel of Asutri’s soul. “What would you suggest then?” Asutri asked if softly.

 

Inside Frérin something almost broke. How could Asutri be so much like Thorin? Thorin too had listened, if only for Frérin’s sake, and it seemed Asutri would hear him out, when no one else might reach him. Schooling his thoughts to calm, Frérin quietly went over the battle plan, making his suggestions.

 

TRB

 

“Asutri, a word,” Tóla came almost running down the stairs towards where the troops were gathering. The night of the new moon was there and deep down in Hverdanger’s passage and Isgrim’s deep the Frostwyrms were roaring. The battle would begin all too soon. She could see Asutri standing with Frérin, they both would lead the advance against the enemy. Durin’s House led from the front, that was nothing to ever change.

 

“Tóla what is it?” Asutri turned to her, an edge of impatience in his voice. “Can it wait until after the battle?”

 

“If you mean: ‘Can it wait until I have gotten myself killed?’; no it can’t.” Tóla tried to sound as firm as she could. She could not cry again, she was done with crying. “A raven arrived here an hour ago – a Narn Curunîr raven, that was forced to fly here. Not asked but forced. He carries a letter of Saruman the White.”

 

“What in the name of Durin would the wizard want from us?” Asutri asked, his attention shifting fully to Tóla.

 

Tóla felt a choke in her throat. “He claims to having captured Uncle Kíli and he makes demands for his… continued safety. He is not very veiled about what he will do when we fail to comply.” She could not prevent her hand from shaking when she handed her brother the letter.

 

Asutri took the letter, reading it carefully, his face becoming paler and paler as he continued. When he was finished Tóla could easily see the pain echoed in his eyes. “What are we going to do?” She asked softly. “He demands an army… our loyalty…”

 

She saw how Asutri’s face slowly closed, becoming a stern, impenetrable mask. “Kór, your torch,” he said to the guardsman, who handed him the smoking torch. Asutri rolled up the parchment and lowered the torch so the writ caught fire, dropping it only when it was almost completely consumed by flame. “We will do nothing,” he said to Tóla. “for we cannot give in to such threats.” He pointed at the armies assembled in the yards below. “Look around you, sister, we are asking each and any of these fighters to die – to die at our command – we cannot make exceptions, not for anyone. Not even for Kíli – and he would not want us to. If this is truly the end of days then let it be said that we stood and fought to the last dwarf, not compromising nor cutting deals with the enemy.”

 

The words had been meant for Tóla only but they had been heard by the warriors beside them and down below and their voices rose in a cheer, in a loud, fierce battle call. Their chorus drowned out by the rumble of the explosions as the stone fire caskets broke the tunnel surfaces. The Frostwyrms roared as they were driven towards the exits. Tóla saw her brother draw his sword and leading the first troop towards the tunnel exit they’d storm. The battle had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> I have to admit I am rarely nervous about a chapter but with this one, I am. I really wish Tolkien had given us another generation of Durin’s House to work with – so I’d not be forced to invent them.


	19. The servants of thine enemy

Shakurán drew the hood of the long cloak deeper into his face when he had followed Gríma into the bowels of Isengard. No one had questioned Gríma bringing a messenger into Saruman’s stronghold. The dark cloak helped of course, hiding Shakurán’s face and the black scale mail armor that would give him away as a warrior from Minas Morgul.

 

Standing in a dark corner where two tunnels interjoined, Shakurán watched the hustle and bustle of the Orcs, hearing the forges ring below and seeing the freshly bred ones driven forward to train. Being no stranger to large scale Orc barracks he knew as well structured Orc legion when he saw one, though he also noticed the lack of commanders ranking above the Orcs themselves. Which was either a mistake or Saruman had found a way to improve the intelligence and disposition of his Orcs dramatically. Shakurán knew all too well why the Great Lord had such needed of Men following him – Orcs were simply unreliable. Inside any given Orc fist existed at least a dozen lethal squabbles and enough destructive malevolence to rip the entire fist apart. Experience taught that an Orc could hold command over a dozen of his own kind without problems, he might managed command over a part fist of 150 Orcs without creating too much chaos if he was strong fisted and able to exert his will on the others, and Orc even might hold command over a full fist consisting of 750 of his kind without making a total mess of it, if he was exceptionally cunning and ruthless. But that was it – from cohort up Orcs were simply too stupid, having too little discipline and a total lack of understanding for strategy to be trusted with such commands. How did Saruman plan to solve this problem?

 

Soft steps approached and Gríma ducked under the low ceiling of another tunnel, his face was set in a scowl that echoed his anger more than he might like to. “Tell me, Easterling, do your people know a cure for excessive Orc stupidity?” he asked in a hiss when he was close enough.

 

Shakurán leaned back against the wall, not giving up on his relaxed pose. “Not really, it’s incurable. We kill the ones who deceed their usual level of having little brains, to having no brains at all.”

 

Gríma snorted grimly. “Uglúk is down in the deeps, howling his throat out as he is whipped for his failings,” he said. “not that it will help either you or me – with Mauhúr and that little sneaking rat Shagrat in charge now.”

 

“Uglúk lost his captives again, I take it?” Shakurán was not surprised, any resourceful prisoner might escape the Orcs if he was lucky and used the right moment.

 

“He brought the wrong captives,” Gríma’s hands curled up to fists. “he was supposed to capture the Halflings that you are seeking as well, but he did not find them. Instead he brought some dwarf or other and a Man… that little idiot captured Boromir of Gondor! Has he any idea what happens when his father learns of this? It will break whatever tenuous hold I exert for Saruman over Theoden King, for if he has to choose between his honor and the life of his son…”

 

“He will choose honor, as it should be,” Shakurán replied, his mind racing at these news. No Halflings, either the Orcs had missed them entirely, or they had never been there in the first place. He would have to send word to the Witch King about that swiftly, and then there was that treachery of Saruman to deal with.

 

“It would mean the death of Theodred… if he survives here long at all,” Gríma’s voice sank to a whisper. “Saruman spoke of teaching him… teaching him how to become a true King…”

 

“But instead he threw him into a cell at the Orc’s tender mercies?” Shakurán was not surprised. The Prince was a hostage for his father’s behavior, but Saruman could not hope to make use of that hostage for long, sooner or later the Horse King would decide that his son was dead and break free of that hold.

 

“I do not know exactly where he is held yet,” Gríma shook his head. “but I will find out. In the meantime we need to think of something regarding Boromir of Gondor, I shudder to think what will happen if his father learns of this…”

 

“Leave him to me,” Shakurán replied.

 

His words were cut short by a sound ringing through the deeps of the Orc barracks. Gríma jumped and tensed. “I am being summoned,” he said softly. “if he orders me to…”

 

“If he lets you into his treachery, you forget that you ever saw me,” Shakurán reassured him. “I will take it from here. Be careful, Gríma.” He was not yet through with this ally, and he was sure that Gríma was halfway to betraying his master, even as Shakurán yet lacked the knowledge he would need to bring it about.

 

With a nod Gríma hastened away, and Shakurán leaned deeper into the shadows. With his guide and oversight finally gone he was free to act. Swiftly he left his hideout, striding over the wooden bridges and catwalks deeper into the Orc barracks. By now he had studied the Orc types running around here. There were the Uruk-hai, Saruman’s own breed, very tall and powerful, there was a number of Mountain Goblins, small and pale-ish, usually assigned to do menial work and there was still a number of Mordor Orcs – sent here when Saruman had entered his brief alliance with the Great Lord. These were what Shakurán had been looking for.

 

At the end of a dark bridge he grabbed one of them by the arm. “Brég tar shrák,” he had to keep his voice low even as it was sharp. The Orc jumped, his eyes widening almost comically when he realized that he was confronted with an Easterling, then he ducked once more and shuffled ahead of Shakurán, deeper into the bowels of Isengard, leading him down to a deeper level where the breeding dens were located calling for another Orc – Shagrat was the name he called him.

 

Shakurán studied Shagrat, pleased to notice the marks on his face – he was a higher ranked eastern Orc. Shagrat’s ugly face split into a mighty grin. “I knew this treachery wouldn’t last and High up would send someone to deal with,” he said in his deep drawl. “what orders does the eyes send?”

 

“Assessment first,” Shakurán did not punish the Orc for speaking out of turn – Shagrat did not realize fully he was dealing with one of the Night Wings – but what use would a haughty show of rank be here anyway? He needed this Orc and his cronies for now. “how many troops does the traitor have? How swiftly can he marshal them? How many of yours are still reliable?”

 

Shagrat gestured him to follow him deeper into the bowels of the breeding pit caves. “He has one to two legions bred and will have a third standing soon – his forges are too slow to gear them swiftly, those Mountain Maggots never were good workers. But by end of the months two legions will be ready to march.”

 

12,600 Orcs ready to march soon, Shakurán translated the numbers from the Eastern measurements Shagrat used.  With another legion coming, he’d soon be up to 20,000 Orcs, meaning Saruman had a veritable army poised to strike at whatever target he chose. “Has he spoken of any plans?” he asked Shagrat. “Any upcoming campaigns?”

 

Shagrat growled softly. “He thinks he is really High up now, wants to slaughter the Horse people first, then Lugburz itself. A traitor he is, filthy wizard. He is after something the Eye wants, but no one knows what that is.”

 

“It is why I was sent here,” Shakurán watched as the breeding pits were filled again as he spoke, “where does he keep the captives Uglúk brought to him?”

 

“The dwarf is in the forges and made work,” Shagrat spat out, “we have to guard him all the time, waste of time if you ask me. And the big Men-warrior is in a cell, they brought him from upstairs a day ago – he was all still and unmoving when they brought him from Saruman’s chambers, and he did not wake since. The White Wizard is done with him, that’s what they say.”

 

Inwardly Shakurán sighed, that did not sound good. Boromir of Gondor really had the talent to show up in places where he had not been invited to. And whatever Saruman might have done to his mind… Shakurán knew that any man’s mind could easily be shattered if he was not protected. On the other hand, he did not know enough yet. “Where do they hold him now?” he asked, giving Shagrat a stare. “I may have need of him to distract the traitor.”

 

Shagrat grinned, the thought of mayhem was always something to get an Orc’s cooperation. “They keep him in the pens up on the North side,” he said, pointing the direction. “what are we to do in the meantime?”

 

Shakurán weighed his options. He had too little Orcs at hand to truly finish Saruman’s troops, but the true trick in disrupting an Orc army was not killing them, but sowing chaos. Something the Ithilien Rangers were exceedingly good at, he’d have to steal some of their tricks today. “Confuse them,” he said to Shagrat. “tell Mauhúr that Lugdush is now in charge, say to Lugdush that he is to take control of the forges, have equipment moved from storage to topside and vice versa – get whatever you need that way.” Orcs loved loot and thievery, with permission to steal what they liked they would become very creative indeed. “And have some of your lads sneak into the Tower itself – some who know the place already.”

 

“Me, then.” Shagrat said grinning. “What am I to do?”

 

“I need you to find me something,” Shakurán had to think for a moment to describe the item, which he only guessed might be stored here. “an ancient knife with a curved blade, much shaped like an elven dagger but the hilt is made from bloodstone and the blade is black, engraved with runes. Saruman may keep it where he keeps whatever other artifacts he deems important.”

 

It did not take much knowledge of the Orcs to see Shagrat’s face light up and know that he would enjoy using the chance to steal from Orthanc itself, especially as Shakurán would not ask what else he took and kept. He was not sure the dagger was even here, but if it was it might prove useful – especially when severing Gríma from his oaths to Saruman.

 

TRB

 

Shakurán did not try to hide as he moved through the Orc fortress of Isengard. While Saruman had no formal structure of command above the Orcs, he had Dunlendings serving him and his Orcs were used to seeing Men move freely through Isengard. He made use of that – if the Orcs saw someone sneak around they would naturally assume it was someone who should not be here, but seeing someone who walked amongst them with command, like he belonged here, made them assume he truly did belong here. It was a trick that the Ithilien Rangers had used against Shakurán’s own troops more than once, stealing some dark clothes they had walked directly into the Orc camps and had fooled the Orcs quite profoundly. Boromir’s brother was an expert at such tricks, and Shakurán would never underestimate the Ranger Captain, he might not be the superior warrior his older brother was, but he was just as dangerous.

 

The cells where Boromir was held were away from the main prison, and located just outside of the direct Orc garrison – close enough to be guarded by the Orcs still but not part of their hustling den. The cells had been carved into the bedrock of Orthanc itself, a row of simply stone cells with heavy doors and no windows. Shakurán had approached the Orc on guard duty and procured the key without many problems, claiming that Mauhúr wanted to know how the captive was faring, as the White Wizard was not done with him yet. The Orc had handed him the key and relieved himself of his post.

 

Opening the cell Shakurán was careful, expecting a thrown bucket or other attack, but nothing happened. He slipped inside, putting his torch into the stone scone on the side of the wall. Boromir lay on the ground, asleep, unmoving. Shakurán closed the door behind himself and squatted down beside him – if it was sleep, it was a heavy sleep. His skin was shining with a sheen of sweat and his breath came in ragged gasps. Shakurán shook his head. “And here I thought we’d have outlived our skill to run into each other since that day on the corsair island.”

 

TRB

 

_Heavy snow flakes were drifting through the air, dancing on the wind that drove the clouds relentlessly against the peaks of the Mountains. The November day was dim, and while there was snow falling slowly, the grounds of Hollin had yet to be covered by the white blanket that would hide everything under its icy feathers. Days such as this one reminded Boromir vividly of days long ago, when this land had seemed even more barren and empty._

_He remained at a watchful distance as Kíli spoke to the three old dwarves standing beside the grey stones of a long fallen ruin. All three dwarves were old – their hair and beards grey, their armors well-worn and dented, and they held themselves with a cautious watchfulness that had Boromir distrustful. He had heard enough of the Ironfists already to know they had an ill repute of being Orc allies and wicked dwarves; Thélor’s people had long been in conflict with Durin’s folk and several of the other dwarven nations. When their wish for a meeting had become known most of Moria’s population had been outright against it._

_Bofur had been one of the few to not fume, he had quietly reminded the others that Kíli had already bought Vár’s folk, the Blacklocks into the fold, and had gone as far as risking his life to rescue the last of Barin’s people, of the darkly reputed Stonefoots from the depths under Carn Dum. The latter was something that had even Dwalin growl and grumble to this day, Boromir knew if something could get the old Warmaster into quite the mood, it was mentioning their stint up in the ancient ruins of the Witch King’s lair. Not that he did agree with Dwalin on this – Kíli was trying very hard to bring the remains of their people together, to save those of the fractured dwarven nations who could still be saved after the end of the great war, and he had contacts amongst even the most ill reputed clans of dwarves. He was rebuilding their strength, re-forging them as a nation and it was for the trust in him that some of the other dwarf nations even dared to approach Durin’s folk._

_Boromir’s eyes strayed from the talking group to the surrounding landscape, the meeting was happening out here because none of the Ironfists would dare to enter Moria at this point, and Kíli too had felt it better to conduct the meeting in the ancient ruins of Hollin, far away from the settlements that were swiftly growing at the western gate. It was a good decision, but one that left them vulnerable at the same time. Tensions between the dwarven realms had run high since the Return had begun, and Boromir did not put it past one or two of the more powerful Dwarf Lords to send assassins after Kíli._

A hand shook Boromir’s shoulder, the strong grip of a warrior trying to wake him, from far away he heard a voice – a voice he somehow knew but it was so far away that he did not understand the words. A part of him understood that he should wake up, that he should not sleep. But he was not sleeping, was he? He tried to open his eyes, his eyelids would hardly obey his own will, all he saw was white mists clouding his view and a dark blot, the shape of someone before his eyes fell close again and he drifted back into the deeps of his dreams.

 

TRB

 

Shakurán had seen the short flicker of the eyelids before Boromir drifted off into his dreams again. The Easterling sighed, the state the other man was in reminded him vividly of someone who had been brought back from the Black Chambers in Minas Morgul. Most who were sent there too long came back with a fracturing mind, there were a few tricks to help them – Shakurán had done so for a few of his men who had incurred the Wrath of one of the Lords of the Dread City in the past. Only that he did not know if Boromir would respond to the same methods, or if they would harm him. On the other hand – what options were there? Whatever Saruman had done, it had been almost as efficient as a dark well – and he certainly had no control over one of those. When Shakurán shook Boromir again, there was no response, if anything the Gondorian had sunken deeper into his sleep. There was little doubt that nothing from the waking world could reach him, still Shakurán hesitated to do what he’d do at once if it was one of his men. Boromir would hardly like it and it hard certainly never been tried on an uninitiated.

 

But then, Boromir had proven to be one of the toughest and bravest people Shakurán knew, he had once walked up to the rim of a black Sanctuary, he had witnessed Shakurán live through _the calling_ without serious damage –  which bespoke a remarkable strength and courage. He’d have to trust Boromir was still the same strong person.

 

Looking up to the dark ceiling Shakurán focused on his eyes, the dark gaze sliding into place with practiced ease – he had too often been in the presence of a Nazgûl that he would need long to allow the dark eyes to see what Men’s eyes could not see. Were one of them present, Shakurán would see their ghostly true forms, thus he saw only the vague glow around Boromir – the sign that his spirit was still in conjunction with his body. The gift of the dark eyes was not supposed to do anything more – but the Easterlings granted this blessing had found out that it allowed for limited interactions with the spirit world. And that’s where Shakurán needed to go – he’d have to find Boromir.

 

TRB

 

_“They are still distrustful, but their young people are already beginning to flee their strongholds and seek shelter with us,” Kíli’s deep voice echoed a slightly growl as they walked on the back of the barren hill towards the path. “I would never have believed Ironfists to be fearful – they usually were too brazen for that.”_

_“Do they have any links to Erebor?” Boromir noticed that Kíli did not chose the path back to the Western Gate, but the narrow winding way that lead up into the foothills. It seemed that he was not yet ready to return to the great halls._

_“Erebor?” Kíli laughed, the genuine amusement melting the harder expression on his face. “Thorli would hide behind his throne in fear, if he knew he was supposed to be allied with the Ironfists.”_

_Thorli, Kíli never called Thorin III Stonehelm by his rightful name, and Boromir would agree that while the Dwarf Lord certainly could not help having been named after one of the greatest dwarven heroes, it would have been a wise and diplomatic move on Thorin III’s part to choose a different coronation name upon ascending the throne. His name claimed a succession that was untrue. “We are meeting another group today?” he asked, as they climbed across the foothill and Kíli chose the direction of Windbreaker Gulch._

_“None that I planned,” Kíli replied. “while fearful and full of distrust, the three mentioned that another group of dwarves is coming our way, approaching from the East.”_

_“From the East?” Boromir frowned, it was not the direction from whence they usually were approached by dwarves joining them. Usually they came from the West or North, Exiles, dark dwarf tribes, other dwarf groups without a homeland. There had been a few dwarves who came from Erebor to join them, but it was rare and not always greeted happily by the Exiles. The gulf between the Exiles and those of Erebor ran deep, and had grown grim with the long decades of the second Exile, some grudges went back to the first Exile and the coming of the Dragon even. “Could it be envoys from Erebor or from Aglarond?”_

_“No, they would have approached the Eastern Gate and not crossed the Mountains,” Kíli tilted his head to look up to him, a smile sparkling in his black eyes. “don’tworry, so close to Dwalin’s defense line we can’t run into more than a few dozen Orcs.”_

_And there was it, underneath the veneer of the leader, the dwarf most of Moria considered their King, was still the Wanderer, the Fighter, who would happily go out of his way to help a few strangers, simply because he could and who did not care the least that he might have to fight for his life before the day was out. He did not answer, Kíli sensed most of what he felt through the bond anyway and they fell into an easy silence as they walked further up and into Windbreaker Gulch._

_The wind became stronger and colder, it was snowing more fiercely when they saw them – a group of maybe two hundred dwarves, leading packed ponies across the steep hillsides, dwarflings walked beside them, the smallest mounted on the pack animals. The group was armed, crossbows, axes and swords was what they carried, and they moved through the icy November day with an unfazed ease that belied the frosty weather. But that was not what Boromir noticed most about them – when the first came closer he could clearly see their appearance – they all had fair to light hair, a shade that he had never seen amongst dwarves before. The same moment he felt an intense echo of shock from Kíli, who looked at them his eyes wide for a moment. “You know them?”_

_“They are of the Reach, Boromir… my father’s people.” Kíli said in a hush._

_A shadow fell over the landscape and Boromir saw a figure appear from the shadows, an intense pain jerked through him, like a whip curling around his mind, he tried to push it away, the bond reverberating with energy and then the landscape melted before his very eyes._

TRB

 

Intense pain jerked through Shakurán as he was thrown back into his consciousness, he was shaking the pain as intense as a flaying from a Nazgûl. He gritted his teeth, struggling to regain control, checking on Boromir. The Gondorian groaned and sat up, his eyes open and awake. He frowned deeply. “Shakurán? If this is your land of the dead, it is too soon for another battle…”

 

His mind definitely had suffered some shock. “No need for that,” Shakurán replied casually. “I am still very much alive, and so are you. Though how you managed to get yourself into Saruman’s dungeons is beyond me.”

 

“Alive? But you…” Boromir broke off, sitting up fully and leaning his back against the cold stone wall. “Wait… Saruman?” He closed his eyes, like to fall asleep again.

 

Shakurán grabbed his shoulder. “You must not drift off again, you were dreaming, I do not know what you saw but it has a hold on you still. You are in Isengard, you were captured by an Orc named Uglúk… whatever you saw in your dreams was not real.”

 

Boromir pushed the hand off and opened his eyes. “No, it was real – very real, Shakurán, I only did not understand it.” He exhaled slowly, and Shakurán could see how he relaxed.

 

“I doubt that anything you saw could be real,” he shrugged, if Boromir came to terms with whatever tricks had been played on his mind, it was not important if he believed it dreams or truth. “I do not know what he even tried to put into your mind.”

 

“The truth,” Boromir put his hand against the wall and began to push himself up. “the truth… of who I am, who I always was…” His gaze fixed on Shakurán. “And I take it you were sent from Barad Dûr to bring me there? A captive again?”

 

Shakurán laughed, a short hard laughter, hiding his thoughts. He had no orders regarding Boromir of Gondor, simply because no one had expected him to be in Isengard. And Shakurán had chosen to not think about what his orders might be if the Witch King knew. “Don’t flatter yourself, you are important but not that important and you are several feet too big to be a Halfling. I found you here because I have need of you. So you can either come with me, or you can stay in your tastefully simple cell und Saruman remembers that you exist.”

 

Boromir’s green eyes narrowed. “So Saruman has truly betrayed your Master,” He pushed away from the wall standing fully free. “I will come with you – I have someone to free from the dungeons.”

 

“That dwarf that was captured with you?” Shakurán guessed. “We can talk about that as well. What do you need him for?” He handed Boromir a brown cloak that he had stolen from a Dunlending prowling the Orc dens hours ago.

 

“His name is Kíli,” Boromir slung the cloak over his shoulders and pulled up the hood, to hide his face. “and I have to find him.” He had pulled the door open a narrow gap and peered outside His eyes were trained on the corridor outside. “Two Orc guards, arguing with each other.”

 

“Kíli son of Thorin? He is the other captive?” Shakurán had to exercise a good deal of discipline to sound so casual. “I should have guessed you’d make allies of that house.” He could not afford to let his feelings get in the way of his mission. Shantar had died as any Son of the Empire should, fighting to the last, taking a great foe with him, though the words had a hollow ring to them.

 

Boromir did not reply but ducked into the shadows and left the cell, they could get past the two arguing Orcs without being noticed and vanish into a side tunnel. There Shakurán took the lead again, guiding them away from Orthanc’s bedrock and deeper into the Orc den again. “Don’t try to hide so much,” he said softly as they walked. “if they feel you are hiding, they know you are on the run.”

 

They crossed a wooden bridge above the breeding pens. On a platform Boromir stopped, looking down. “By the light… what are they doing here? Are they breeding them?” He asked, his voice hard and sterner than Shakurán did recall it.

 

“Aye, those are part of the breeding pens. Saruman created a new type of Orc, Uruk-hai he calles them, halfbreeds between Orcs and Hillmen, they do not fear the sun and are stronger than regular Orcs, a good bit better coordinated as well,” Shakurán openly spoke of his observations about them. “he has two legions nearly ready and a third coming.”

 

“Meaning he has an army ready to strike, an army created for only one purpose.” Boromir’s hands closed around the wooden railing, the knuckles standing out white.

 

“Now you know why I have need of you,” Shakurán replied, his eyes still on the pits below where fresh Uruk-hai were ‘born’ from their pits while other pits were refilled.

 

Boromir turned his head to him. “Why?” he asked. “You could send word to your Masters and…”

 

“And what?” Shakurán asked a little more sharply. “Saruman is on his own side now and he wants the world, nothing less. He will begin with Rohan, and when he is done there he will advance East. Whom do you think he is going to take on next?”

 

“Where is your trust into the Might of the Eastern Empire?” Boromir’s voice held an edge of grim humor as he spoke. “Whatever do you need me for here?”

 

Shakurán sighed. “With most of our Elite gathering in the Ephel Duath, the Imperial Armies are not depleted but weakened. Even if word were send directly to Cymarkhan what we are faced with here, it would take weeks to send word to the provinces and mobilize the Army Eternal to the fullest, add to that marching times and so forth… the Eastern Provinces and Rhûn would burn before we could marshal a serious defense.” He spoke the truth, he knew how the Empire’s defenses had to be now that almost all the Elite was in Mordor. “Someone has to slow Saruman down or even defeat him. The Rohirrim are a brave people but their organization is rough and their leadership lacking. Which is where you come in: they are your allies after all.”

 

He could see the glare Boromir shot him, of course the Captain of Gondor would help to defend his allies, he could do nothing but, and he would do well at it, Shakurán had no doubts. But he hated being used. “At least you are honest about it,” Boromir said after a while. “Should I be worried about that?”

 

“Not overly so, Son of the Sea Kings,” Shakurán could not resist to use the term that he knew would slightly rile Boromir. “my orders are to secure the Halflings and disrupt Saruman’s doings best that I can. There are no Halflings here, thus Saruman has my full attention and he is your problem as much as mine.”

 

Their eyes met and Shakurán could read the answer in the firm gaze that met his. They had relied on each other for survival before, had been forced to trust each other to a level that was unheard of, and now again they were at such a point. There was no words affirming their temporary alliance, no shake of hands or other outward sign that anything had shifted, though all had changed. Boromir gave him a curt nod. “Where do they keep Kíli?”

 

“The main forges, and in the slave pens when he is not working,” Shakurán informed him, reigning in any discussion why the dwarf had to be freed. If he wanted Boromir of Gondor to give Saruman trouble, he would need to hold back and allow Boromir to take the lead. He could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> Some of the events Shakurán is referring to can be found in the story “At the Edge of the World” on my profile. 
> 
> I wrote this chapter still sleepy from a hard working weekend… I hope it still makes sense.


	20. Fanning the sparks

Ducked behind the blades of high grass and a few boulders Anvari found the cover they had meager, yet it was all there was on the last ridge before the valley of Narn Curunîr. They had arrived here within the late hours of afternoon, after evading several of Saruman’s Orc partrols. Éomer and his riders had disliked hiding from the Orcs, but they too did not want Saruman to suspect any danger. Most of the éored hid in a den behind the highest hill north of the valley, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

 

Leaning slightly against the hard grassroots Anvari narrowed his eyes as he peered down into the valley, in the bright light of the spring afternoon the pits of Isengard looked all the darker and uglier, a mar on the pristine landscape. Black smoke rose from many of the pits and treadmills or waterwheels were installed at several places between the pits, probably to facilitate material transport into the deeper levels. In his heart Anvari wondered where Kíli might be – was he even still alive? He pushed the worries out of his mind, he had to keep sharp and on the task if he wanted to help Kíli at all.

 

“The wall is primitive, they must have built it in a hurry,” Elrohir observed, the elf lay in the cover of more high grass only a step away and studied Isengard’s defenses with his keen eyes. “there is no finesse to the fortifications that I can see.”

 

“He does not need finesse,” Éomer had joined their scouting venture, his voice echoed scorn for the Lord of Orthanc. “he has enough Orcs to patrol the wall, which makes it as efficient as the highest fortress wall there is.”

 

“Not if we sneak past them,” Aragorn had not spoken so far, now he reached out to nudge Anvari, to gain his attention. “what do you think of that gate over there? I have seen it open twice now, but I can’t see any Orcs opening it.”

 

Shifting his gaze to the main gate Anvari watched as the mighty stone barrier was lifted up to allow a patrol in, he did not long stare at the lifted block but swiftly scanned the area behind it. “It’s a counterweight system, Aragorn – one of the Orcs’ favorite contraptions. Do you see that heavy wooden wheel over there? When it is pushed an additional weightstone is added to the counterweights and the gate rises, the other wheel will shift the weightstone back to the gate side to close it.”

 

“You say you know how to open that gate if you were on the inside?” their talk had definitely gained Éomer’s attention, the Rohirrim too watched as the gate closed behind the Orc patrol.

 

Anvari shrugged, he’d not be much of a dwarf if he did not know how to handle such contraptions. Erebor’s Siege gate mechanics were much more complex and only worked with the help of water. “Aye, but what does that help us, Éomer?”

 

The Rider’s mien suddenly shone in a grin. “Because you are our way in, Anvari. I could scale the wall with some of my men and kill the guards without so much as a noise – but none of us would know how to move that ugly Orc construction.”

 

“A raid,” Elrohir sounded appreciative. “the trick will be finding the prisoners swiftly. In such an Orc’s den they might in dozens of places.”

 

“Once we are inside, we split up,” Éomer pointed down, then used a broken branch to draw a circle into the Earth, symbolizing Isengard. “four groups go down into the Orc pit and search there, one group searches their surface building and one group – my group – risks the Tower.”

 

“The Tower is the most dangerous part, Éomer,” Aragorn shook his head, “it would be folly to enter Orthanc, who knows what dangers await inside?”

 

“I know,” Éomer replied firmly, “but Saruman took Prince Theodred hostage, and I believe he will keep him inside the Tower. So I have to go there.”

 

Inwardly Anvari agreed with Éomer, the Kingdom of the Horse Lords could not afford to have their only Prince in the hands of a Wizard. “Maybe you do not have to storm the front gate,” he suggested. “the Orcs are not entering the Tower through the main entrance either – they will have their gates in the basement, hidden in the bedrock.”

 

Aragorn’s eyes turned to Anvari, “Could you find their entrance?” he asked, “I can see ways to navigate the Orc barracks without being discovered early, but getting inside the Tower is an entirely different kettle of stew.”

 

“Once I am close enough to Orthanc’s bedrock, I will know where to go,” Anvari answered the question, “you have a plan, do you?” He had already learned that the quiet Ranger could come up with cunning plans that put even Kíli’s crazy ideas to shame at times.

 

“Elrohir and I will go with the groups into the Orc barracks – there will be two parts of their prisons, one the general dungeons and one the cages for the captives in their forge,” Aragorn’s shoulders tensed slightly as he spoke of the latter, “you go with Elrohir to the tower, those not on any of the three groups await us outside, ready to give us support during retreat.” He glanced to Éomer who had listened to what he had to say.

 

“Your plan is a good one,” Éomer admitted, Anvari had noticed before that he sometimes would defer to Aragorn’s decisions, though he probably did not know why. “but you cannot ask your friend to come with me, he too has a friend – a father! – to find in these dungeons.”

 

Anvari shook his head. “We are allies, Éomer, I am coming with you,” he said firmly, without hesitation. Elrohir and Aragorn would find Kíli, he was sure of that. And Kíli would do exactly the same, help where he could best help.

 

“Then it is decided, come nightfall we will go,” Éomer moved backwards, into the cover of the ridge and then back to his men, to organize the groups, to inform his men of the plan. The three hunters remained on the ridge, watching Isengard, and the Orcs moving to and fro in the outer sections. What would they find inside?

 

TRB

 

The whip of an Orc hit Kíli’s shoulder, sending a fiery pain through his arm, as he helped the young Rohirrim back to his feet. The new captive had been brought to the forge hours before and chained to the same anvil as Kíli. It did not take any skill of observation to know that the young one had never worked in a forge before, already exhausted he had collapsed from the work and the stiff heat inside the forge. Disregarding the whip Kíli pulled him up, helping him to lean against the anvil. “Catch your breath, I’ll get you water.” He said softly, before moving away from the anvil and towards the water barrel. The chains on his ankle rattled on the cold stone as he walked, and there was another lash coming, he ignored both.

 

“What are you doing, dwarf-scum?” The Uruk-hai snapped at him.

 

“If you want him to work, he will need water,” Kíli replied in the same Orc tongue the Uruk-hai had spoken in. “otherwise you can bring one of the Mountain Maggots to assist me again.” With a grim satisfaction he saw the scowl on the Uruk-hai’s face, the two Mountain Orcs that had worked with Kíli the previous day had both proven useless, one collapsing halfway through the day, the other stumbling into the smelting pit.

 

“Get the water, but remember the measure you have to finish by Midnight,” He growled, stalking off to whip the Orcs on the other anvils to work faster.

 

Kíli brought the water pitcher back to the Rohirrim, who was standing a little steadier already. “There, drink that, it will help a little,” he said in Westron. The few words of the Rohirric tongue he knew did not lend themselves to conversation at all.

 

The Rohirrim gulped down the lukewarm water, then handed the pitcher back with a grateful nod. “Thank you, stranger,” his voice was rough, strained with exhaustion and pain.

 

Kíli put the pitcher aside and handed him a tong. “Pretend to hold the raw pieces and don’t draw their attention,” he said, returning to work on the Orc blades. The young man could not hold out much longer, but this way he’d have some kind of a break without the Uruk-hai noticing and Kíli could work without assistance if necessary.

 

“Why are you helping me, stranger?” The Rohirrim asked softly, when he had recovered a little, and began to truly hold the raw pieces again. “Why risk being whipped for someone you don’t even know?”

 

Tossing two more blades on the rack for the Orcs to take and bring to the sharpening wheel, Kíli looked up. “The name is Kíli,” he said, before taking the next raw blade to work on. “and we are both captives here – that should make us allies, don’t you think?” His back might hurt from the lashes, but he could take it, and if it kept the whip away from the young one, it was worth it.

A scuffle and noise at the entrance disrupted the works in the forge, Kíli heard the whip slash hard, hitting an Uruk-hai’s face. “The Lord Saruman has not given permission to put him to work,” a cold voice announced. “you seem to want to share Uglúk’s fate, Lugdush.”

 

Peering to the side Kíli saw a dark-haired man, pointing the whip’s handle at the confused Uruk-hai. “But Shagrat brought orders for him to be put here,” Lugdush argued, only to feel the whip again.

 

“Foolish creature, when the Lord Saruman speaks you cower, now – bring me the prisoner, or do you want to join Uglúk?” The Uruk-hai came and unchained the Rohirrim captive, pushing him towards the waiting man. Kíli managed to exchange a short glance with the young one, just enough to see a short, resigned shaking of the head, before they vanished into the tunnel leading away from the forge.

 

Lugdush grinned at him. “Seems you will have finish your work alone, scum,” he said, playing idly with the whip.

 

TRB

 

Shakurán spotted Shagrat lurking in a corner outside the main works, the Orc had seen him too and waited in the shadows, not giving himself away. Careful to not draw Boromir’s attention to the Orc, Shakurán glanced back to the forge, where Gríma was just leaving.

 

“There he goes – and all for a little chaos amongst Orcs,” Shakurán observed, ducking a little deeper into the shadows as he watched the events unfold. He could already see where the usually smooth organization of Isengard began to unravel. “Your friend was crazy enough to help… I am not surprised you like him.”

 

Boromir shot the man beside him almost a glare. “And he now has to deal with a deeply frustrated Uruk-hai, how can we get him out?”

 

Shakuran’s eyes had already found whom he was looking for. “Wait until chaos erupts inside the forge, then go and get him swiftly. I shall meet with you on the junction above the waterworks over there.” He pointed in the direction of place he meant, it was little patrolled and he’d have some Shagrat’s Orcs create chaos somewhere below.

 

Seeing Boromir’s curt nod, Shakurán dropped down from his hiding place and swiftly reached Shagrat in his dark corner. “Your lads are having fun, I see.”

 

The Orc grinned. “It’s only the beginning, Mauhúr that useless thief has the Mountain Maggots almost up in revolt… doesn’t know how to whip them right.” Shagrat glanced around hastily as to make sure no one was close, before he pulled a blade from his cloak, handing it to Shakurán. “My boys found that in the Tower – it burns. They say the Tower is empty, silent… something is wrong.”

 

Shakurán took the blade, the cool bloodstone hilt slightly burning in his hand, the runes engraved on the dark blade were angrily red, liked written in blood. He hid his excitement, he had presumed the blade existed, but he had not known for sure. Many such items were described in legend, made in days long past – in an Elder age that had shaped the world. He put the blade away swiftly. “Good work, Shagrat – as the for the Tower – is there any word on Saruman? Did he go somewhere?”

 

The Orc shook his head. “No one has seen him since he summoned Gríma and that was a day ago. The Tower is silent – too silent.” The last words were spoken in low, guttural growl, for the untrained ear it was just an uncouth sound made by an Orc, for Shakurán it was the clear sign of fear that the Orc did not dare to display in front of him.

 

“I will look into that,” he said firmly, in his mind already changing his plan. “your lads need to create some chaos in the forge. Have Lugdush put to work or all working Orcs set free… whatever you can come up with. Just make the place fall apart for a while – and make sure your lads know not to notice the dwarf or the Man-warrior, whatever they do – ignore them.”

 

Shagrat did not understand, but he got the gist of it. “Them getting away will make the wizard furious,” he drawled appreciatively. “wait for half an hour, then strike.” He ducked away and hustled back to his Orcs.

 

Shakurán returned to Bormir, swiftly jumping up onto catwalk again. “Do you think you can escape on your own?” he asked swiftly.

 

“What about having need of me?” Boromir could not fathom Shakurán’s entire plan, but something had just shifted or changed, and he wanted to know what it was.

 

“I need you to escape and help your hapless allies to oppose Saruman,” Shakurán replied, “and something is off in the Tower, I’d rather find out what it is than to learn of Saruman’s latest treachery when I don’t need fresh troubles.”

 

Green eyes met his gaze steadily. “You better be careful, that Tower is a maze to navigate as deathly and treacherous as the Dread City itself,” Boromir’s voice was calm, but there was an iron edge to it. “it might be a trap.”

 

Shakurán hid a smile, it wouldn’t do to imply that Boromir was worried about him, it wouldn’t do at all. “Then it is good that I have been navigating the maze of Minas Morgul for nearly twenty years now.” he said.

 

“Minas Ithil,” Boromir corrected him, more out of habit than anything else. “Take care – from what I heard Saruman’s treachery reaches as high as his ambitions, which is to rival your own Master in power. Whatever he does, it will not be hurtles.”

 

There was an interesting grain of information hidden in those words – rival Barad-Dûr himself? Saruman must truly have taken a leave of absence from his wits. “No one can rival the Shadow Boromir – one might only become part of it.” Shakurán replied, getting ready to leave. “When next time we meet it should be on a battlefield. Good luck defending you city, you will need it,” Shakurán ducked and jumped down towards the tunnel below.

 

TRB

 

Theodred almost collapsed on the hard floor of the stone cell, the cold air of the Tower was a welcome relief after the merciless heat of the forge. While he was exhausted in body and hurting more than he’d liked to admit, his mind had not dulled nor had he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity. He sat down, looking up to the man who had brought him here and who also had seen to it that a bucket of fresh water was placed into the cell. “Why, Gríma?” he asked, keeping all anger out of his voice.

 

The dark haired man ducked under his words like under a whip. “The forge would kill you and you are not here to die,” he replied, pushing the water towards Theodred.

 

“No, I am here so Saruman has leverage to control my father,” Theodred replied, not touching the water. He was thirsty, the heat and the work had seen to that, but he did not accept the offered water yet. “and ‘tis is not what I spoke of. Why first seeing me brought here and then try and then show up to see me whenever you can? Was this…” his eyes pointed at his sooth-stained arms with the marks of a few whiplashes, “was this what you always wanted for me? To see me punished? If so, I should like to know for what.”

 

“I have no wish to punish you,” Gríma replied slowly, the words dragging out as his eyes darted forth and back. “but I cannot help you either.”

 

In spite of his exhaustion Theodred pushed himself to his feet to face Gríma standing, he was taller than his father’s councilor and towered him slightly. “You hate this, Gríma,” he said softly. “I can see it in your eyes. You hate this Tower, you hate the wizard… and you hate being his creature. You hate it almost as much as you dislike my father.”

 

“I never…” Gríma’s voice trailed off, he did not give words to the lie that had been glibly on his tongue.

 

“You dislike my father,” Theodred repeated, keeping all accusation out of his voice. “for whatever reasons I do not know – it might be the same reasons you dislike Éomer for, but you never hated me.” His hand touched the stone wall of the cell. “And you hate this Tower just as much… so why, Gríma? Why make yourself serve men you equally despise? You could be free…”

 

Gríma laughed, it was not a laugh of humor, nor one of mockery but one of incredulity. “You wouldn’t understand, Theodred… you could not understand. Twenty-two years ago… twenty-two years ago on midsummer’s eve I walked up the stairs of this Tower in secret, seeking advice on how to save a life, how to spare one life an unjust sentence passed over him… Saruman had advice for me, more than just advice, but it came at a price… at the price of a blood oath.” Gríma drew himself up standing tall, discarding his stooping appearance for the moment. “I do not hate you, Prince Theodred of Rohan because I like to think that you closely resemble a man who was my friend.”

 

Before Theodred could say something, answer or ask, Gríma had turned around and walked of the cell the door closing behind him.

 

TRB

The sun had just vanished past the western horizon but the gloomy light of dusk was still enveloping the valley when they reached the wall, crossing the valley during the sunset had been dangerous but the growing unrest inside Isengard had allowed them to avoid detection. Aragorn craned his neck to peer up the rough wall. Elrohir was one of the first to climb it, in the midst amongst several of the Rohirrim. Aragorn followed on the other side, where also Éomer and Anvari were climbing across the outer wall of Isengard. The Orcs had guards up on the wall of course, but most of them fell from blades in the back or sliced throats before they could make so much as a noise.

 

Behind the wall lay the Orc pits of Isengard, their fumes and noise not fading at nightfall. Aragorn could hear the loud voices of Orcs, the slap of whips and also the shouts of a few brawls going on deep below. It was all drowned out by a loud cracking sound, he turned and saw Anvari pushing hard against the wooden wheel that moved the weightstones. It worked much as the dwarf had said it would – the stone door began to rise, allowing the troops outside to flood into Isengard.

 

“Place the Orc bodies under the gate,” Aragorn said, waving Elrohir and a few Rohirrim to help. “so anyone who finds them will think they squabbled amongst themselves when a patrol came back from the outside.”

 

The others followed his word without any debates, when it was done Éomer called two of his men close. “Eadwine, you and your men go with Aragorn, do as he says. Elrohir, can you go with Wyn and his group? They are taking the other side of the pit. Ingvar, you are with Anvari and I.”

 

Aragorn could see that Éomer’s group was the smallest, it had to be by sheer necessity, entering the tower itself was an undertaking that did not bear many men. Still, he disliked sending them alone – who knew what awaited them inside the darkness of Orthanc?

 

“Where to, my Lord” Eadwine’s words interrupted his thoughts. He was a young rider, not older than in his mid-twenties, and Aragorn wondered how many raids he might have seen already.

 

He took the lead, guiding them away from the gate and towards one of the unguarded Orc ladders leading into the bowles of Isengard. “Keep your cloaks up,” he whispered to them. “the longer we remain unnoticed, the better.”

 

TRB

 

The loud lashing of a whip and fierce howl of an Orc were what alerted Boromir that the time had come. What had seemingly begun as a minor Orc squabble inside the forge, erupted into full-fledged fighting within moments, with more Orcs joining the fray from both sides, while several of the Mountain Orcs took their chance to flee the pit for good.

 

Not wasting any time on watching the Orcs fight amongst themselves, Boromir slipped into the greater forge looking around. He had seen such works before – huge halls full of anvils and smelting pits, thousands of Orcs laboring for the war machine of the east. He had also seen such a forge filled with captives, deep in the bowels of Moria. Finding one dwarf inside a forge full of Orcs seemed simple enough, but finding one dwarf in a forge full of squabbling Orcs was an entirely different measure. He had to duck when a thrown hammer came his way and he swiftly moved off, because a whole bundle of Orcs tumbled towards him, fighting in a wild heap.

 

He hurried past them and across one of the catwalks. He could not see Kíli, though he could feel him close. Ever since he had awoken the bond had settled to a clarity it had not had before – maybe because he now understood it. Before him an Orc was impaled by a spear and he again had to move aside, crossing the forge. When he looked around he finally saw him – deftly squatted behind the anvil, out of the line of sigh of most Orcs, Kíli was already working on freeing himself. Boromir smiled, he should not have expected any different. Hastily he bridged the distance between them, reaching Kíli just as he had pried the shackle off his ankle.

 

“Boromir!” Kíli’s deep voice echoed surprise and intense relief at seeing him. “Are you alright?”

 

It was such a Kíli question, here he was, marked with the injuries of rough days in the hands of the Orcs and he still would worry if his friends were alright. “More than ever,” Boromir replied, their eyes met and inside that once glance there was a recognition, an understanding that went beyond words, beyond even trying to voice it. Now that he finally knew himself, Boromir understood it, knew what he had been seeing but not understanding all along.

 

Kíli fished two finished weapons off a rack at the side of the wall, tossing one to Boromir. The blade was a rough, curved Orc blade but it was sharp and it would kill. They did not need any more words, as they headed towards the other exit, away from the forge, where Lugdush was just being hanged by the Mordor Orcs.

 

When they climbed the long ladder up to the guard levels, Boromir heard a growl. He pushed himself up, coming to stand beside Kíli on a narrow wooden catwalk. On both sides of the bridge stood Ors.

 

“Running away like rats,” Mauhúr drawled loudly. “the White Wizard won’t like that… and my lads will enjoy punishing you for it.”

 

A glance left and right told Boromir that there were several dozen Orcs on each of the bridge. He moved half a step, coming to stand back to back with Kíli. They were trapped.

 

TRB

 

The Tower was eerily silent, the cold, dank air even seemed to swallow up Gríma’s own steps as he moved through the darkness. And it was dark too – night had fallen onto the Tower, dousing all candles and torches, leaving nothing but a cold, stifling darkness that spread like an icy blanket over the halls and rooms of Orthanc. There were no Orcs in the Tower and the servants that Saruman employed to see to his household had been dismissed for the night.

 

Gríma knew such nights in the Tower, nights when there was no sleep, only a pained, stifling wakefulness, nights when he felt like all life, all warmth was gone from the world. He stood in the lower library of the Tower, having retreated there after he had seen Theodred brought to his cell. Theodred… he did not want to think about the young Prince now. It was such a waste, Theodred could become the King Rohan had not had in a long time.

 

Idly he perused the shelves, stacked with books Saruman deemed not important enough to keep in the main library, finally coming to a stop at the lectern by the window. A book rested there, he probably had placed it there himself during his last stay in the Tower. Few others ever came here, and if Saruman wanted a book of such minor importance he had someone fetch it.

 

Night had fallen outside and the windows were dark, touched by a white Mist that coldly shrouded the Tower. Gríma could see his own reflection in the window, peering brokenly back at him. He hardly looked at himself, more at the darkness that seemed to shroud his reflection, but the white mists marring the dark windows tonight played tricks on his eye. In their pale shapes he saw a face for a moment – a figure, taller than himself and broad shoulders, long hair framing a good-looking, proud face, an easy smile curling the lips…

 

Startled Gríma almost jumped away from the lectern, looking around. No, there was no one standing behind him, no one else in the room but himself. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Arguing with Theodred had stirred up memories, or maybe he just wanted to see an echo of Aeonar’s features in Theodred, maybe he was just making up an excuse because he liked the boy. He sighed, it was a night for ghosts most certainly. Looking down at the book he tried to remember why he had placed it here.

 

 _“What do the letters tell you, Gríma?”_ A youthful voice whispered from the past, startling Gríma’s heart anew. How long ago… how many years ago that he had been sitting at the back of the hall of Meduseld, secretly reading one of his mother’s books, safely away from the other boys?

 

 _“Many stories, Aeonar, many stories of many things,”_ he gave the answer in his mind, the answer he had given so long ago. He could still the other boy, putting aside the practice sword and sitting down opposite of him. _“Will you read them to me?”_

 

Gríma closed his eyes trying to fend of the ghosts of the past, but it was harder than ever before. In the loneliness of the cold, dank Tower the ghosts of the past seemed the one company a man could not refuse. “What would you do, Aeonar?” Gríma asked the silence. “Tonight I’d need you more than ever… what would you do?” He sighed, talking to ghosts was not exactly the sign of a sane man. And he knew what Aeonar would do… he’d do what was right, no matter the cost. But what he could do with that answer, Gríma did not know.

 


	21. Night over Isengard

Boromir kicked a shrieking Orc off the bridge, picking up his weapon before the next Orc could rush in. The two blades in his hands were still crude Orc weapons but fighting became easier when he had two blades in hand. The narrow bridge had forced the Orcs to storm in small groups so far and for some reason Mauhúr held back on his archers. Boromir could only guess that the Uruk-hai had orders to catch them alive. He heard a sharp crack and saw from the corner of his eye that Kíli threw a strangled Orc into the deeps, having grabbed the Orc’s heavy axe. “Time to get out of this, don’t you think?” The darf’s deep voice was strong, fed by the sheer energy of the fight.

 

“How?” Boromir could not see a way to rush one of the bridge ends, they’d become embroiled into fighting a dozen Uruk-hai at once and still having some at their backs.

 

“Be ready to jump soon,” Kíli advanced, pushing an Orc back and brought the axe down on the ropes holding the bridge in place, he moved backwards, exchanging places with Boromir and did the same on the other side.

 

The wood creaked loudly and only moments later the bridge bend to the side, as the support beam below them gave in. “Jump!” Boromir felt Kíli’s hard grip at his arm as they let the bending bridge carry them down before they pushed off and landed on another catwalk below. They ran towards the left side, Kíli cutting the ropes of that catwalk the moment they were off. Behind them rose the angered shrieks of the Orcs.

 

After the first moment of near panic Boromir followed Kíli’s lead – he had done something like that before, he remembered as much, and he let the memory guide him as they began their race against the Orcs. It was hard, he had to push past his own good sense for survival and allow this crazy style of fight to take over. Kíli displayed the absolute sense for underground surroundings his kind was blessed with here, along with the keen eye for structure; he seemed always to know which rope to cut or what structure to collapse to achieve which result.

 

At first Boromir had problems to keep up, to react as swiftly when it came to jumping or follow on an already swinging structure. Did dwarves ever lose their balance? Yet, the further they came the more he became at ease with it again. Not only his mind remembered a similar chaotic flight through a Goblin Town but his body began to accept the reflexes his mind tried to enforce and after a while he had found his footing again, acting in coordination with Kíli as they ran.

 

Their flight led them across parts of the barracks, again they passed the breeding pits and another barrack until they reached ladders leading up. Climbing up swiftly, they had to duck when an Orc sailed past them into the deeps. Above Boromir heard weapon’s noise, the loud clanging of blades against armor and shrieks. Someone else fought the Orcs or they were fighting amongst themselves again. He hastened to made it up towards a broader wooden platform suspended between several bridges above them.

 

When he climbed up a man whirled around towards him, sword in hand. Boromir found himself with Anduril’s tip aimed for his throat. Recognizing him Aragorn lowered the blade. “Boromir!” There was relief in his voice, when he turned to his companions. “Eadwine, we need to secure that bridge, they will have hunters after them.”

 

“Easily done,” Boromir turned to the bridge Aragorn had pointed to, it was the logical route the Orcs could use to cut them off and used his blades on the ropes, cutting the bridge end loose, it bend deep with a loud creak. Kíli had followed him up to the platform, kicking the ladder away.

 

Aragorn’s glance fell on both of them. “When we found the cells empty, I had hoped you had managed to escape – I had hardly expected you to vandalize the pit.”

 

Boromir cast a short glance over the men with Aragorn, they were doubtlessly warrior from Rohan, though they seemed to follow his lead. “What are you doing here? Did…” he took a slow breath, realizing he had to be careful with his words. “The mission?”

 

“The mission is well, and we are here to rescue you, or did you think we’d leave you to the Orcs? Elrohir is with another group over by the waterworks – we have to meet up with him. Hopefully Éomer will have found his prisoner as well.” Boromir was surprised to hear those words, when they had stayed behind to distract the Orcs rescue had not been in the plan.

 

“Boromir – do you see the torches over there?” Kíli’s words interrupted his speculations. There was a wordless _We will find out later_ in his voice, something only Boromir could read in his tone.

 

He followed the gesture with his eyes, the Orcs rarely had used torches in the deeper levels, they saw well enough in the darkness, but here on the upper levels there were torches and even some braziers placed along the platforms. He understood at once what Kíli was thinking. “Every Goblin Town needs a scorching now and then,” he grabbed two long torches, they would need to reach Elrohir first to make sure none of their friends would be trapped in the fire. His words elicited a true smile from Kíli, maybe the first Boromir had seen from him since the day Fíli died.

 

TRB

 

The bedrock levels of Isengard were dark and dank, a cold seemingly seeped from the walls, draining any warmth from the otherwise stuffy air of Isengard’s pit. Anvari had to try hard to hide his tension the closer they came to the foot of the Tower – there was a strength, a sheer _power_ that radiated off the stone, it sung to him, tugging at the senses he had learned to keep under control from childhood on. Something, or someone strong and powerful, with a presence stronger than almost all he had ever seen, resided inside this Tower and he was not veiling his strength at the moment.

 

“Can you truly find a door in this stone?” Éomer asked softly, the Rohirrim leader was sneaking through the pit beside Anvari, having made swift work of the few Orcs they had encountered. For some reason there was chaos in the pit. “There seems nothing but one stone root from which this Tower was grown.”

 

Anvari smiled, that sounded almost poetic and the idea of growing a tower out of stone was certainly an appealing one. “It is stone, Éomer, a root of the deep stone surprisingly close to the surface. There are several doors in these deeps – but one will lead us to a stair linking with the higher levels of the Tower.” He could see Éomer frown and eye him sharply, like many Rohirrim Éomer distrusted anything that he believed to be ‘wizardry’, if he knew what Anvari already sensed from the Tower he would put him into one pot with Saruman without thinking. “I am a dwarf, Éomer,” Anvari said softly. “I am a stone creature – in the deep stone I never lose my way.”

 

Éomer nodded at that, but froze a moment later. “Duck down,” he hissed, crouching behind what cover some heavy wooden beams, holding the upper structures, could provide.

 

Anvari had retreated to the darkness near the wall, watching as an entire fist of Orcs raced past them and towards the ladders leading up. What their destination was, they could not even begin to guess, far too many fighting sounds echoed through the pits – be it from their friends or from the Orcs fighting amongst themselves. When the last Orcs were past them and out of sight, they left their cover and sneaked on, following the circular path leading around the roots of the Tower.

 

Not much further Anvari stopped. “Here it is,” he said, pointing to the wall they stood before. It was an Orc door, disguised to look like rock and while they certainly had some skill in hiding their traps and trapdoors, it was painfully obvious. The mechanism was controlled by a steel lever in the ground. When Anvari pulled it, the stone door opened for them, revealing a long dark staircase. Cool air emerged from the entrance and the suddenly strengthening aura made Anvari’s neck hair stand on end. Something was happening inside the Tower.

 

Éomer waved Ingvar close. “You have our back, no heroics, Ingvar – once you spot a danger you shout.” He said to their silent companion. They were only three, because it would be easier to hide a small group inside the Tower than a large one.

 

They slipped inside the Tower and Anvari closed the door again, a similar lever was on the inside, it was made for Orcs, so there was no finesse to their hidden doors. Now all they had to do was to find the cells.

 

TRB

 

Shakurán felt the presence in the Tower push against him like a dark wind, it was not the natural darkness of a deep night in his homeland, nor the majestic shadow of Minas Morgul – it was a colder, stifling darkness but it still alerted his senses almost immediately. The effect he felt was not entirely foreign to him – if a Nazgûl chose to shed his disguise and unveil his full power the effect could be reminiscent of this, only here it was stronger. Could it be that Saruman was doing something – something that took extreme focus from him? Or did he prepare himself for a confrontation already and could not hide his true extend of power at the same time? It was a thought the Easterling did not like. He had to find Gríma – the Rohirrim might know more and might know a way to end this. More than once powerful man had fallen from the wrong poison slipped into this wine and Saruman certainly was someone who could do with a little forktongue-root in his tea.

Navigating the Tower was a strange experience, of the seven Tower the Sea-Kings had built upon their arrival in Middle-Earth Orthanc was certainly the most mysterious. Like the other Towers Orthanc had been built to house one of the Palantrî and as a seat of power over the surrounding regions, but while other towers, like the towers of Minas Arnor, Annúminas, Elostirion or Minas Morgul… Minas Ithil, could be attributed to having been built according to the wishes and designs of Elendil or one of his sons, who had been planning Orthanc remained unknown. No historical book recorded the name of architect, nor of the first Lord to rule there.

 

The longer Shakurán walked Orthanc’s halls the more he wondered who had built this Tower. During one of the times when his troops had held three quarters of Osgiliath Shakurán had gone to the ruined Dome of the Stars, like many other Easterlings he had been wondering if the legend of the lost Osgiliath stone could be true at all, and he had come away impressed by the beautiful building and with serious doubts that the stone could have fallen into the river. He had also seen the Tower of Minas Ithil, which was now the ruling seat of the Witch King. The tower shared many traits with the Dome of the Stars and he was sure that the Tower of Minas Arnor would be similar. But Orthanc was nothing like them – it lacked the clear lines, the bright and airy architecture that the Faithful had employed in all their buildings and that most certainly had been inspired by the elven architecture of the time.

 

Not to say the Tower was not of Numenóran design, the carvings in the walls, the writings in the black stone – the shape of the halls and sweeping stairs were clear traits of their style but… Suddenly Shakurán stopped in his tracks, his eyes seeing the Tower more clearly and he knew what the Tower reminded him of – the black tower of Orthanc shared more than just a few traits with the Black Temple on Numenór itself. Carefully he touched the glistening black walls – had the builder of this Tower been one of the dark Numenórans? Hiding amongst the faithful when he recognized his King’s folly and surviving in the way all followers of the Shadow had since the dawn of time? Had he secretly built this Tower according to a knowledge none of the Faithful had ever been able to decipher?

 

Shakurán wished he had the time to explore the Tower more fully, to see if there were traces that could confirm his theory. Or maybe at least to try and see if the carvings in the walls were not carvings at all but secret writings only to be deciphered by those initiated. He truly wished he could spend at least a few days on this secret – what old stories might this place hold? What surviving secrets of Numenor? No, he told himself. Poking around in Numenor’s ancient darkness would only be enjoyable with at least one Numenoran present to debate anything he found.

 

“You should not sneak through these halls in such a night,” a cool voice came from his back. “the Tower is dangerous in such hours.”

 

Shakurán had already recognized Gríma’s voice. “You do not seem to fear the darkness,” he said turning around to the other man, who carried a simple steel candlestick with one burning candle spending sparse light into the nightly hall.

 

“I have been walking these halls for more than twenty years,” Gríma gestured him to follow, “and I have nothing left to fear. Though I am surprised that you came here at such an hour.”

 

Shakurán shrugged, he would certainly not tell Gríma of Shagrat and his report. “I promised you to free your Rohirric boy Prince, and as you had him moved from the forges back to the Tower, I had to come back here.” They walked into a small library, a room full of shelves and books, through the mist shrouded windows fell the vague light of the reborn moon.

 

“Strange that you would keep your word,” Gríma mused, placing the candlestick on the windowsill. “Usually your kind is keen to use a tool and discard it quickly. Why? I cannot be of further use to you – as Saruman has revealed his changed allegiances to me now.”

 

So Saruman had finally caught up on not leaving his servant on the dark, it was not surprising but it came at an inconvenient time. “You serve him and you hate him,” Shakurán observed, stepping closer to meet Gríma’s eyes. “for whatever reasons you entered his service, it was certainly not because you wished to be one of his creatures.”

 

Gríma pushed away from him and walked to the window, his eyes on the window. “You wouldn’t understand, Easterling, my servitude is the price I paid… for saving a friend. And I knew what I it would mean.”

 

There was a stronger person underneath the cloak of the servant, the creature, than most people would ever see, Shakurán noticed, and it made Gríma all the more dangerous. “You are serving two masters, Gríma,” he said, speaking without any judgement, after navigating the rule and strife of the Nazgûl Lords he understood how easily any man could end up in such a position. “and in the end we always must choose where we stand. Are you strong enough to break free of him?”

 

Gríma laughed, it was a rough, bitter sound. “I swore a blood oath, Easterling, I am bound to him in ways you might not even begin to understand.”

 

Why was it that people believing themselves doomed always thought their situation was unique? He walked to the window too, leaning against the stone frame. “The oaths taken to the Great Lord of the Dark are of Blood, Soul and Flesh,” he said, speaking like he would to someone he was training. “they are taken in the Temple of Night, engraven on your bones, etched into your soul and sealed with your flesh – binding your entire being into the service of the Night. I could not knowingly betray my oaths without dying, or suffering a penalty of pain few men survive for long.” He had skittered on the edge of the oaths a number of times and knew how it felt.

 

“So you are as bound as I am,” Gríma eyed him thoughtfully. “and either proud of it or chafing under it as I do.” There was an echo of understanding in his voice.

 

“In a way,” Shakurán said, “yet sometimes throughout the history of my people it became necessary to cut someone loose, to revoke his oaths and send him away. The first was Ulfang the Black – he and his sons were faithful servants of the Great Lord of Shadows and…”

 

“… and they pretended to serve the elven King Caranthir until finally betraying him,” Gríma finished the line. “I know the ballads about them.”

 

“And you never wondered how it was achieved?” Shakurán asked. “The Noldor King would have sensed someone with the Shadow’s Oaths upon him within a mile’s distance. Thus he and his sons was given two blades each  – the blades of Ulfang as they are known, to allow their original oaths to be lifted off them, though in their hearts they kept the loyalty to the Great Lord, they were free to swear whatever allegiance the elves asked of them – and they used the Blades of Ulfang to break free of that oath prior the Nirnaeth Arnoediad to accomplish their true goal.”

 

Shakurán did not mention the other Easterling leader Bór and his sons, who had used the blades he had been given to break free of Shadow and had remained faithful to the elven King he had sworn to. It was a chapter of Easterling history that was little discussed even inside the Empire, and luckily the light side had failed to make a true point of it either. He leaned back and drew the blade from his belt. “Two of these blades are kept inside the Empire – they were used to cut loose the twelve thousand after the loss of Dagorlad, they were used to revoke the Oaths of Jancarai when he was sent South to destroy the Southern Harad Kingdom and they are still kept by the Empire for days to come. The other blades were lost, falling into elven hands, some ending up in Numenorán possession, the Tower of Minas Tirith should still hold one, only they have no idea what they are having. And… Orthanc too had one.”

 

Gríma’s eyes widened when he saw the blade, the bloodstone hilt softly shimmering in the light of the candle. “You cannot mean this – an oath is an oath, and it will be broken when not kept, no matter what strange magics you work betwixt it.” He said firmly.

 

Inwardly Shakurán wondered if the strict belief in keeping one’s word was a trait deeply bred into all Rohirrim, even halfbloods like Gríma. “It is a broken oath – and you will have to live with that for the rest of your life,” he agreed, “but it will give back the ability to act to you, you would be able to do what the blood oath prevents you from doing. You will still be an Oathbreaker, but you will be able to do what you wish to do – if you are strong enough to bear such a fate.”

 

“It would truly lift the effects of the blood oath?” Gríma asked hesitantly. “I would be able to act against Saruman… because the Oath would truly be broken?”

 

The Oath would be lifted, but Shakurán did not waste time to explain that to Gríma. “It lifted the effects the oaths to a much greater Lord have, Gríma, it can lift that blood oath of yours as well. If you… if your Prince is worth such a sacrifice.”

 

Angrily Gríma took the blade from his hand, his face set determinedly. “What do I do?” he asked.

 

“You cut with the blade through both of your palms, until the entire blade and the runes on it are covered by your blood,” Shakurán gave him the instructions, they had been described most clearly in the stories of the lost twelve thousand. “then you take the hilt between your bleeding hands and raise it above your head. The words are simple. _Under the Night that guards me and before the earth that carries me, I Foreswear all Oaths that bind me._ ”

 

He watched as Gríma followed the instructions without wincing, and without hesitation. When he spoke the words the blade glowed in sheer red flame, sending a spark of pain through the man, he almost collapsed. So there had been a truly binding component to that oath, Shakuran mused, otherwise such a reaction would not happen.

 

Gríma panted, struggling back to his feet, handing back the bloodied blade. He was pale, but his face was composed, though the reality of being an Oathbreaker only began to sink in. Shakurán took the blade back and cleaned it swiftly. He would keep it, who knew when it might be needed? “What will you do now?” he asked Gríma.

 

“I will do what I should have done from the beginning of all this,” the other man replied. “there is a secret exit on the far end of this library – it should allow you to get away before Saruman realizes what is happening.”

 

While he still had answers to find, Shakurán was satisfied with the mission so far – he had freed Boromir to oppose Saruman and he had turned one of Saurman’s close servants against him – it might not be enough to destroy the wizard but it would slow him down.

 

TRB

 

When the dark figure appeared first before them in the corridor, Anvari heard a low grumble from Éomer. “Gríma… I knew he was a traitor…” the Rohirrim warrior noiselessly drew his sword, ready to advance on the back of the dark man.

 

Anvari reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “No,” he whispered, “he can maybe lead us where we need to go.” It was only a hunch, but after trying to navigate this maze of a Tower for two hours he was ready to try something crazy.

 

Éomer’s eyes narrowed, then the warrior nodded grimly, accepting the suggestion. Anvari let go and bit back a relieved exhale. Éomer was used to be a leader, to make decisions and he certainly was not used to someone of the men telling him otherwise. Anvari had never more clearly realized how much he too had been raised to speak up, to not simply follow but to think ahead. And while he often held back and let Kíli take the lead, he could not deny the trait that was there.

 

They followed Gríma as he hastened along several cold and dark halls of the Tower, he had no eyes for anything and the silence of the Tower swallowed their steps behind him. He went down a flight of stairs and towards a hall looking much like all the halls they had passed before. He stopped before one of the many stone doors in the wall, opening it with the key he carried. Inside they heard the clinking of a chain that was loosened.

 

Anvari followed Éomer as he advanced and saw Gríma letting another Rohirrim out of the cell – he was maybe four or five years younger than Éomer and looked like had a hard day in the forge behind him. Éomer raised his sword and this time pushed Gríma down to the ground. “This is enough, worm,” he lowered the blade to Gríma’s throat before looking to the other man. “Theodred, are you alright?”

 

“I am alive, thanks to the help of…” Theodred’s voice trailed off when his gaze fell on Anvari. “you must be here for him – he called himself Kíli.”

 

“The others will find him,” Éomer said confidently, though he was glad to hear that Anvari’s father was still alive. “let us dispose of this snake and get out of here.”

 

“No,” Theodred shook his head. “let Gríma go, Éomer. He came to free me too.”

 

Éomer’s eyes narrowed. “After betraying you in the first place, Theodred. He was the one who handed you over to Saruman’s servants, he is a traitor.”

 

“Even if it were so, Éomer, he came to free me – to make up for his crimes.” Theodred’s voice was firm. “And I will not kill a man without hearing him first, or judging him properly. You let him go now!”

 

With a sharp exhale Éomer stepped back from Gríma sheathing his sword. “Still, we should not take him with us, who knows his mind and what treacheries he is planning next?”

 

A loud noise, like a cracking sound rang through the silence of the Tower, and the first tickle of warmth seeped back into the air. Gríma pulled himself up to his feet. “You have not much time to flee; the Tower… the night is almost over. There is an exit from the Tower in the hall above.”

 

Éomer’s mien made clear that he did not trust one word Gríma said, but Theodred silence him with the raising of his hand. “I do not know why you are doing this, Gríma, but you have my thanks – if you ever wish to return to our people, I will hear you out.”

 

Gríma’s smile was sad, and more than a little grim. “Maybe that day will come, Prince Theodred,” he said his voice calmer and without the silky tones they all knew too well of him. “if you return home, be warned – I may have been the most obvious of Saruman’s servants in your father’s household but I am not the only one. There are at least two more, and I do not know what their instructions are.”

 

“Who are they?” Theodred asked, his eyes focused on Gríma.

 

“I once saw a man judged, sentenced and hanged because the wrong person uttered his name in the wrong context,” Gríma said coolly. “and I will not do the same to any other man – I do not know what their price was nor what guilt they carry towards your House, Prince Theodred. So I must keep my silence.”

 

A tension rose through the tower, like the presence that filled its halls was suddenly approaching. Anvari could feel it, like a pulse quickening further and further. “We need to run, he is coming,” he snapped, turning in the direction Gríma had pointed them in. He saw that Theodred had turned as well, and Éomer followed his lead. They ran through the halls that lost their nightly chill in favor of an almost unnatural warmth, up the stairwell they headed and into a hall that truly had a large gate leading out of the tower.

 

“Do you truly wish to leave the tower in such company, Prince Theodred?” A smooth voice cut through the hall as a figure appeared at the other end of the hall. It was Saruman – but not the cold, calculating wizard they knew of – the bright figure appearing at the far end of the hall was majestic, a man of power watching them with patient amusement.

 

“I would leave in any company, as long as I can leave,” Theodred replied, his voice a rough, uncouth echo of the smooth words from before. He further approached the door, step by step.

 

Saruman laughed, a musical, benignly amused laughter. “You have much to learn, young Prince. No one leaves this Tower without my consent – for I am the Tower and the Tower is I.”

 

Anvari’s every sense tingled from the sheer power the wizard exuded, not even in Rú had he sensed such a well of power and the elven warrior had certainly been one of the most powerful beings he had ever encountered. Still – power did not suffer distraction, or so Canó had drilled into him from childhood on. “Éomer… go – I’ll distract him,” he whispered to the Rohirrim warrior standing beside him. He saw the blink of the eyes, confirming his words had been heard and advanced at Saruman.

 

The wizard stood unmoving as Anvari stepped forward, watching him with detached interest. “I assume you are one of Prince Fíli’s manifold offspring…” he spoke like a man classifying an insignificant insect to whatever species it might belong. “one of the many who’s blood will be spilled uselessly.”

 

Anvari let the words wash over himself like the waves of the far off ocean as he focused inside, when he had been young he had learned to maintain a strong wall inside his own mind, shielding his flame, to keep his talents suppressed most of the time. Now he reached behind it, opening his mind to the flame, becoming the flame. His senses began to more than tingle, suddenly he felt the charged up air, the crackling of power in every breath and cold humidity of the night air clinging to the windows. He reached out to the cold humid breeze and drew it towards himself, more to shield himself than to attack, as he drew his blade. “Let’s see who is bleeding today,” he knew he could win this fight, but if Saruman was distracted only for a little the others could get away.

 

Saruman only swiped his hand through the air and Anvari felt the protective shell of air crumble as he was tossed across the floor and smashed against the wall. “You do not truly think that a little tainted, twisted dwarf can resist me?” Saruman asked coldly. He raised his staff, the sharp tip approaching Anvari’s throat.

 

Anvari focused, trying to raise the sword but he was unable to move, nothing he tried worked, like he was cut off from himself. He saw the sharp spike of the staff and new it would impale him. He bared his throat, daring Saruman to do his worst, from the corner of his eye he saw the others had reached the door. Only a little further.

“You are nothing but a twisted little creature – so far beneath me that you cannot resist my least will.” Saruman said, raising the staff to strike, but before the strike could fall the ground of the hall shook as the door burst open in a bright ray of light.

 

“But I can resist you, old friend.” A gravelly voice spoke into the silence of the hall.

 

Anvari raised his hand, able to move again, to shield his eyes against the brightness – the figure standing inside the doorway was pale and oh so bright – a radiance of true light standing in the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note
> 
> Okay… who ordered so much nasty heat?! It’s so hot and stuff, it gets hard to think. :P
> 
> Ulfang and Bór can be found in the Silmarrillion, or be looked up at Tolkiengateway – their stories are rather short, and things around it are my interpretation. (As always).


	22. The one that was lost

The light was so intense, so flaringly bright that Anvari almost believed he’d go blind if he looked any longer, but he could not turn away either, like his gaze was drawn to the light. Saruman had stood unmoving for a moment, frozen in shock, then he raised his staff again, turning towards the door. “So you have finally unveiled your secret ambition, Gandalf.” He said striding towards the center of the hall. “Instead of hiding any longer behind the Grey you chose to cloak yourself in.”

 

Saruman raised his black staff, thrusting it forward, but the gesture seemed futile. The figure emerging from the light raised his hand and the Lord of Orthanc was pushed back several steps. “I am Gandalf the White, you no longer have a color, Saruman, you are cast out of the Order and from the Council.”

 

From the corner of his eye Anvari saw movement and a moment later Éomer was beside him. “Anvari… Folkwyrd be thanked, you are alive. Can you stand?” He extended a hand to help him up. Grabbing his arm Anvari pulled himself to his feet, standing numbly for a moment to catch his breath. Whatever Saruman had done it wore off slowly, he could sense his own flame again.

 

“You may be the White now,” Saruman’s voice was condescending and cold, “but I have grown beyond you. I am he who is of all colors, who walks with power,” he raised his arms high to the ceiling and a whisper ran through the halls of Orthanc as a shadow fell from the ceiling, settling upon his shoulders in the form of a cloak shining in all colors, shifting and twisting.

 

“You truly have fallen far, Saruman,” Gandalf’s voice was stern as he raised his white staff high. “but your treachery ends here.”

 

To everyone’s surprise Saruman laughed, a cold icy laughter that rang out through the empty halls of Orthanc. “You are still the sentimental fool you always were, Gandalf – you can fight me, but will you sacrifice these creatures to do so? Will you kill them to keep yourself able to fight?” His hand pointed towards Anvari and Éomer. “Take your sword, dwarf.”

 

The voice came like a whip, like a whisper in thousand lashes, reaching deep inside Anvari’s soul and slowly twisting it. He yelped, struggling against the iron will the words projected. But something inside him resonated with every word the wizard spoke, crawling from the recesses of his soul to heed the call. His hand sank to the hilt of his sword without his own will wanting it.

 

“You fool,” Saruman’s said scornfully, “the darkness you carry is deeper than you now, creature, and darkness calls for darkness. Take your weapon – attack him!”

 

Anvari felt his body tense, both hands clinging to the blade, the dragon’s tooth burning hot in his hands. He felt the echoes creep up to him, demanding he obey the voice calling for him. _Your will is not your own._ The echoes seemed to whisper. _Obey._ He wanted to obey, a part of him did, reaching for the black blood he had been given so long ago. But another part of him was still himself, was free of the taint. Cano had taught him to control what had remained inside him after the cleansing. In his mind Anvari imagined his mentor’s face, his words… focusing on them and suddenly he felt it again – the rushing waters in the cave by the sea and the voice, the powerful voices driving the darkness away. It was a child’s memory, a dwarfling’s recollection of something he had not understood at the time, but he had made a promise that day. He had promised them he’d be brave, he’d be strong and face whatever came his way.

 

Inwardly Anvari could smile, it had been a child’s promise to a legend, but his word still stood. Embracing the far off sound of the rushing waves he opened his eyes and sheathed the sword. “No,” his voice seemed weak, barely audible to him, but he did not care. “No,” he repeated louder. “I am not your tool – nor your servant.”

 

“Then you die with the others, creature,” Saruman raised his staff towards them, but before the strike could fall Gandalf raised his hand again and the movement stilled.

 

“You are right, Saruman, I am not you – I will not destroy what I cannot control.” His voice was saddened, but strong. When he raised his staff a bright light filled the hall, forcing Saruman back, but the Shadows emerging from the Lord of Orthanc resisted the light still. For moments that dredged out like hours the hall was locked in the collision of power between the two Wizards. Then Gandalf raised his hand in a commanding gesture,  and Saruman’s staff splintered in his hands, in the same moment Anvari felt like a powerful hand was pushing him to the door, his feet followed, and with Theodred and Éomer he stumbled out of the Tower. Behind them the door of the Tower fell closed with a thunderous noise.

 

Whirling around he saw Gandalf standing with them, his eyes still on the closed door of the Orthanc. “And so it ends,” he said softly, before turning to them.

 

“We need to run,” Theodred pointed around them, “the pit is aflame. If we do not hurry we will be trapped in the fire.” The Rohirric Prince was right –flames licked up the wooden constructions of the pit and black smoke rose from the deeps. “Or will he follow us?” Theodred’s eyes went up the Tower.

 

“His power is broken,” Gandalf strode down the stairs in haste, choosing one of the few open paths still to guide them past the flames. “what will become of him… not even the wise ones may foretell.”

 

TRB

 

They met with the others on the green hills above the Ring of Isengard, the fresh wind drove the smoke away from them. While Éomer and Theodred were greeted by the éoered, Gandalf turned to the four tired, soothstained fighters standing a little apart. His frown fell upon Boromir. “I recall only one man reckless enough to torch an Orc den that he had not escaped from yet,” he said, but there was warmth behind the seemingly stern words.

 

“And he knew to trust his comrades to outrun the fire,” Boromir replied, not the least chastised by the critique. “and I do not recall the Grey Pilgrim complaining at the time.”

 

Gandalf’s eyes sparkled. “So some good has come of Saruman’s ill doings, after all.” He replied cryptically.

 

Aragorn approached him, his face not hiding the shock he must feel. “Gandalf… how… when? We saw you die… you remained in the Shadows of Moria…” He stumbled over his own words.

 

“I remained under the Stone and from the deepest pit to the highest peak of Moria I battled the Balrog of Morgoth,” Gandalf replied, his eyes going past them. “Until at last, I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside. Then darkness took me. And I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead and everyday was as long as a life-age of the earth. But it was not the end. I felt light in me again.” His eyes went from Aragorn to Boromir. “The choice to return and fulfill the task I had begun, to face the storm that is rising over Middle Earth.”

 

“Gandalf…” Aragorn began speaking, the questions echoing in the single word all too clearly, but the wizard cut him off.

 

“There is little time left, Aragorn. Isengard was only the beginning. Free from the doubts about Saruman’s treachery the Enemy will move faster and strike harder than before. Rohan must find its strength to aid the fight or the battle might be lost before it began.”

 

“We need to ride to Edoras, with his son freed from the dungeons of Isengard Theoden King is free to act again,” Aragorn said firmly. “and if the Enemy will strike swiftly Gondor will bear the brunt of his rage. I had considered sending Boromir ahead to his homeland, they will need him in the battle to come – but my heart warns me to act rashly.”

 

“And a wise choice it might prove to be,” Gandalf stepped closer, making sure that only the friends could hear him. “what of Frodo?” he asked.

 

“We were separated at Amon Hen,” Aragorn said. “Sam and Aelin went with him as he crossed the river to continue onwards. We have not heard of them since and it is my hope few shall notice their passing.”

 

A smile relaxed Gandalf’s stern mien. “That is good news indeed, Aragorn and it gives me hope for the fight to come. Let us not delay any longer.”

 

TRB

 

The ride to Edoras was swift, the horses carrying them over the wide plains of grass towards the edge of the White Mountains. Most of the ride had passed in silence but eventually Aragorn had joined with Éomer and Theodred to hear more of the situation at Edoras these days.

 

“At no time my father was a thrall of Saruman,” Theodred explained while they rode. “the wizard’s influence was subtle most of the time, and I am sure many of Gríma’s advice was orchestrated by Saruman himself – but my father chose to follow it or not at his own will. Which is why Saruman chose to take me hostage, I think, when my father became too capricious for him to control and discarded Gríma’s advice too often. It is my hope that now, that I am free he will be able to break whatever last ties to Isengard remain.”

 

“You seem doubtful, Theodred,” Aragorn observed, studying the young rider beside him. The son of Theoden was young, a few years younger than Éomer, and Aragorn would also have deemed Éomer a few years too young for the command he held. But all the riders in the éored were young men, he would estimate most of them closer to twenty than thirty.

 

“Before we escaped Isengard, Gríma warned me that he had not been the only man in Saruman’s employ at my father’s court.” Theodred said thoughtfully, “and that is what I fear. While Gríma was… obvious in a way, to those who had eyes and who knew the court well, I never even thought of suspecting there might be others, less obvious servants of the Lord of Orthanc in Edoras. I fear what they might have wrought in the meantime.”

 

“Éowyn might know advice on that,” Éomer interjected, “she had her thoughts and doubts on some men, but kept her silence as long as she did not know more.”

 

They arrived at the gates of Edoras and were let past the wall without any discussions, most of the éored remained behind by the barracks near the wall, while the others rode on towards the golden hall. At the very entrance of the hall they encountered he guard – several heavily armed men led by a warrior with a startling reddish-golden mane of hair. “Éomer,” he greeted the man he first recognized. “you rode away against the word of King Theoden and your return is not permitted… by order of Vandine himself.” The voice of the warrior was tense as he relayed the orders of the First Marshall.

 

“He rode to find me and he returns by my side, Háma,” Theodred stepped forward, holding the gaze of the doorwarden steadily. “without him I might not have returned at all. Where is my father?”

 

“Prince Theodred,” Háma certainly was startled but he relaxed slightly when he saw Theodred. “your return is truly good tidings. Your father is holding council with First Marshall Vandine and Falcwine, the Warden of the Northern Borders, and Athelstane of the second éored about some unrest going on up North. He passed orders to not be disturbed.”

 

“The Northern Border?” Thedored tensed, casting a swift glance to Gandalf, before turning his full attention back to Háma. “Orc raiders again?”

 

“No,” Háma stepped closer, carefully casting a glance left and right. “it is not Orcs, that much I heard Falcwine say when he came galloping into Edoras yesterday, though he was worried, that much I could see, and he was vexed with Athelstane about the same matter, I could hear them argue at the stables. Falcwine felt he had the situation well in hand – while Athelstane went to the King over his head.” He sighed. “Your father is in a curious mood, Prince Theodred – the day before yesterday he rode out alone and came back only in the hours after dawn. He asked me if I had seen a rider out on the plains, a rider astride a black mearás riding like the old stormlord himself. I told him that I did not know, but I did ask the guards about it later on.”

 

Theodred frowned, there were too many strange things that had happened in the last days. It seemed an irony that he almost missed Gríma who had the sharp wit to cut through such conspiracies and turn them into clear facts in no time. “What did you find out about that rider?” he asked, feeling that Háma had more to say.

 

“Several guards reported having seen him, but having thought nothing of it beyond noticing the horse he rode. Old Folcaris thought told me that the rider came into Edoras the morning after Theoden King had asked me about him and that the man astride the black horse keeps his lower face hidden behind a heavy scarf at all times. I had the city turned upside down to find him for I felt his appearance had brought great unrest to Theoden King’s heart… but I only found him for a short time, he evaded me deftly and he escaped me anew, though I thought I saw his face for a moment.”

 

“And you knew him?” Theodred tried to unriddle the tension he could see in Háma. What influence did that stranger wield on Háma and on Theoden himself.

 

“No… I only thought…” Háma shook his head. “I saw a man who’s been dead for twenty years, Prince Theodred, and whatever his purpose in Edoras is, I have guards still looking for him.”

 

Theodred straightened up. “Whatever that purpose is, it will have to wait – I wish to see my father, Háma, and I will not wait. I should hate to relieve you of your post, but I will if I must.” He felt a cold knot forming inside his stomach, ordering the much older warrior about was not something Theodred liked. But he must not waste time. He knew that those who accompanied him were probably giving Háma pause – and they well should. Only Éomer and Ingvar were Rohirrim, Gandalf for sure was known to the Mark, but the others, Aragorn, Elrohir and the two dwarves were entire strangers, and Háma had yet to realize that Boromir of Gondor was with them as well.

 

Háma stepped aside and gestured his guards to open the doors of the Hall, entering first. “My Lord, your son has returned,” he announced with a clear voice.

 

Theodred walked into the hall, it was darker inside than usual, only a few torches burned at the walls, otherwise the golden Hall lay in shadow. Theoden stood at the heart of the hall, with him was Vandine, the grey First Marshall and Falcwine of the Northern Guard, while Theodred had been warned through Háma’s words that Athelestane too would be present he was surprised to see Aldig and Gundhar as well. His father called for their advice often, but rarely brought them into discussions of war.

 

Theoden turned to him and their eyes met. “Theodred?” The question was asked in a soft, almost broken voice.

 

“Aye, father – I return. Éomer rescued me from the dungeons of Isengard,” Theodred walked on, towards Theoden. “many things have transpired since I was taken and –“

 

“I warned you he and Éomer were in league,” Vandine interrupted him, “they have long been plotting together – but now they are moving in the open and threatening you, my King. They are plotting against you. Look at the wizard and the strange folk they are bringing to your halls.”

 

Theodred froze in his steps, the words were like a slap to his face. “How dare you, Vandine?” he asked, having to force the words out. “How dare you question my loyalty to my father? Without Gandalf and his comrades, Éomer would have had fewer hopes to ever freeing me from the Pit of Isengard.”

 

“And yet you bring armed strangers into this hall, before your father,” Vandine’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, “and you have long been conspiring with Éomer – do not deny it, for all Edoras knows. And now with your allies you have come to destroy your noble father.”

 

Theoden raised his hand, forestalling further words. “I have heard those words before, Vandine – coming from your mouth too, then I believed them, in spite of my doubts. No more. Speak one more word against my son and I shall have to send you from this hall.” Theoden walked past Vandine and the other advisors who made room for his stride as he walked towards Theodred.

 

Theodred strode up to his father, relieved he had not been taken by the wild accusations Vandine had spouted, there had been too much mistrust and doubt in Rohan for too long, if even men like the First Marshall began to believe in such treachery.

 

“If this is your choice, my Lord, then so be it,” Vandine’s voice was icy calm, the old warrior drew his sword with one fluid move and before anyone could react had rammed the blade into Theoden’s back, Falwine, having seen the movement had drawn the blade the same moment, attacking the First Marshall, who yanked his sword free just in time to parry the attack.

 

Theodred caught his stumbling father in his arms, easing him to the ground, from the corner of his eye he saw Athelstane draw a dagger, and the same moment felt a hard hand push him down. Theodred stumbled, half collapsing to his knees beside his father as Aragorn moved between him and the leader of the second éored, the long dagger impaling itself deeply in his chest. He collapsed beside Theodred, the curved hilt of the dagger still protruding from his chest.

 

Éomer’s blade impaled Athelstane only a moment later, the leader of the second éored went down without a noise, his body a dark, stained heap on the ground of the hall. Several more guards had joined the fighting on either side, the chaos of the fight lasted only a few minutes, the only fighter to escape the Hall was Vandine. The old Marshall carved his path out of the hall, stabbing the guards by the door and racing down the stairs into the city. On the last stairs of the hall two arrows shot by a lone archer on the roof of the stables impaled his neck, dropping his body onto the dusty grounds before the hall.

 

Theodred realized little of what happened, as he tried to tend to his father’s injury, the blade had struck clean through the chest, leaving a gaping hole, blood was pooling on the floor. Theodred had slipped off his cloak, trying to stem the bleeding, but it seemed to help only little. Theoden grasped his hand. “It is too late, son,” he said softly, his voice strained. “you cannot save me.”

 

“No, father, you must not give up,” Theodred wrapped the stripes of his cloak around the wound, pressing the other woolen material on it. “I will get you to healer soon.”

 

“My time is coming, Theodred, the dawn is upon me and the night soon must follow,” Theoden’s voice was almost calm now, his hand closing firmly around Theodred’s. “listen to me, son… you never were born to be a warrior but you will have to be one as the Night descends on the world and all we knew is to wither before the storm that rises in the East.” He coughed. “The Rider…”

 

Theodred took his father’s hand between his, he felt hot tears rise in his eyes and he did neither have the strength nor the pride, nor the strength to bite them back. The fighting in the hall had ceased, the noise of weapons muted to an eerie silence. “Get a healer, quick,” Theodred called to those who had fought to subdue the warriors who had assisted Vandine. Behind him someone was tending to wounded Aragorn, but he could not tell who. “Father… the rider is not here,” Theodred tried to calm Theoden.

 

“I know, son,” Theoden’s breath became a soft sigh. “I wish I could have spoken to him… if you ever do… tell him I regretted neither listening nor asking where he had truly been.”

 

On the other side of the dying man Theodred saw Boromir kneel down, casting a short glance at the wound. “The healers are coming, Theodred,” the Gondorian said in a hush.

 

Theodred felt the hands of his father go slack beneath his grip as Theoden’s head sank to the side and his breath stilled. The King of the Mark was dead.

 

TRB

 

The wind was carrying away the smoke and grime of the fires, clearing the air above Isengard. The stench of burned flesh still hung in the air, even as the last fires were quenched. Gríma watched the events from the shadows, no one paying him any regard, as the Orcs dug through the rubble of their pit with remarkable efficiency.

 

Saruman was seated in his high chair at the window of his study, his body appearing frailer than Gríma had ever seen him. His hands were curled around the armrests hard so the knuckles stood out wide. “Is there anything new to report, Gríma?” he asked, his voice thin, like a hiss.

 

“No, my Lord, the Uruk-hai are still digging through the remains to free their brethren,” Gríma replied, surprised that Saruman was unaware of his treachery, or of the broken blood oath. Did he not sense what had happened? He seemed exhausted, tired and devoid of power.

 

“You are telling me nothing new,” Saruman’s voice became impatient. “stand aside, Worm, and let my servant enter.”

 

Gríma slunk deeper into the shadows making room by the door. Heavy steps approached and the door was pushed open by the largest, tallest Uruk-hai Gríma had ever seen. The creature stood at more than seven feet, wearing heavy armor and his hair in topknot. The white paint on his face stood out against the greyish-blue skin.

 

“Report, Lurz,” Saruman ordered, as the Uruk-hai came to stand a few steps away from him.

 

“We have freed most of the first and second legion, my Lord,” The Uruk-hai’s voice was deep, a gravelly growl that hardly lend itself to any regular language. “the third is lost, their breeding pits caught fire too swiftly. The Dunlendings are gathering with the legions outside the walls. Shall we arm them?”

 

Saruman looked at the Uruk-hai, a strange light in his eyes. “How many do we have?” he asked. “How many, Lurz?”

 

“9500 Uruk-hai and about 1300 Dunlendings,” Lurz replied. “we killed the remaining Mountain Maggots and other rioters, but more than a few have fled.”

 

“They are of no importance to us,” Saruman pushed himself up, standing weakly on his feet. “Gandalf might think that breaking my power is enough to achieve a victory, but he has yet to see all the weapons in my arsenal. Gather the troops, Lurz, have them armed and ready to march – the old world will burn and it will begin in Rohan. It is yours to conquer and feast upon.”

 

The Uruk-hai growled a salute to his Master and in his dark corner Gríma shuddered. 11,000 fighters, more than 9000 of them Uruk-hai, if that army reached Rohan and took them by surprise there would be no survivors. They would burn and kill all that stood in their way. There would be no Rohan left when they were done. Even with his staff broken and his power greatly reduced Saruman had a lethal weapon or revenge.

 

Drawing his dark cloak more firmly around his shoulders Gríma slipped out of the study and towards the long hall that led out of the Tower. “What do you think where you are going, Worm?” Saruman spat behind him. “I still have need of you.” But for the first time in more than twenty years Gríma did not heed Saruman’s words, he rushed on towards the exit of the Tower and the stables. He had already broken all the oaths he had ever sworn and he would make sure it had made a difference.

 

TRB

 

“How is he?” Elrohir did not ask the question loudly as he re-entered the hall. The shock of a King murdered in their midst had still not settled upon Edoras, nor had the search for the lone archer that had shot Vandine before he could escape. Elrohir’s question though was about Aragorn, who had suffered a terrible wound protecting Theodred from a similar murder. Gandalf had seen to him, freeing Elrohir to assist with the hunt for those who might try and escape Edoras.

 

Éomer, to whom he had spoken, shook his head. “Gandalf says the blade was poisoned – the stab alone would not kill him, as it missed heart and lung, but the blade was smeared with a lethal poison. He will not life through the night,” there was a grim edge in the Rider’s voice. “it is bitter that it took his life to safe Theodred.”

 

Inwardly Elrohir stilled, trying to not show what he felt. “Can you show me where the healers brought him, Éomer? I will stay with him for a while.”

 

The Rohirrim nodded, guiding him through the maze of rooms behind the hall itself. “I am saddened it happened,” he said, audibly searching for the right words. “he seemed a close friend of yours.”

 

“He grew up in my father’s house, you could call him my little brother,” Elrohir replied, meaning it. Even with all the exasperation he had with Estel at times, he would always be the little brother whom he had taught to use a bow and sneak through the woods. They arrived at a dark room, like most of the rooms in the hall there were no outside windows.

 

Elrohir was not surprised to find Boromir and Kíli with Aragorn. “You have to hang on, Aragorn,” he heard the Gondorian say. “you were to come with us to Gondor, that was the plan, remember?”

 

“We could still try the blue fire – it has cleansed many a poison from a wound before.” Kíli suggested, the dwarf had not yet allowed healers to take care of his own injuries he had sustained in captivity, but directed his worry at their comrade.

 

“The blue fire would kill him, Kíli,” Elrohir said gently, he could see that both were as worried as he was. “it is a gift reserved for your people alone – only you can stand its touch for long.”

 

Both, man and dwarf rose from their positions beside the bed. “Do you know of anything that might help?” Boromir asked directly. “Aragorn slipped into a heavy sleep an hour ago and Gandalf says he won’t wake again.”

 

“I… I have a thought,” Elrohir said hesitantly, it was nothing he wanted to discuss. “can you leave us alone for a while? If I am to try, I need no interruptions.”  He knew the two of them would make sure that no one would disrupt them – not that in the chaos of this night Edoras had other worries than a dying Ranger.

 

Wordlessly Boromir and Kíli left the room and Elrohir sat down beside the bed, Aragorn’s breath was flat and labored, his face tinged with sweat and his skin was slowly taking a pale complexion. When Elrohir studied him, he still could see the eager boy running through the wide valley of Imladris, the young Ranger struggling to accept his legacy, the cunning warrior that grown out of the Ranger and the healer who would always struggle to hold that warrior in check. They had argued a lot over the years and shared a good number of adventures in Eriador, Arwen’s infatuation with Aragorn had certainly complicated things, but Elrohir respected his sister and her choices.

 

It was strange – he had guessed his own choice a long time ago, maybe on the day he had chosen to rather fight his own kind than to leave a friend hanging, maybe when he had realized he loved the world more than he should, or maybe he had known since his own mother had left the world that the path to the ships would never be his. Deep down Elrohir knew it was true, as little as he had understood his mother’s forsaking the world because of the pain, that day the White Ship had sailed down the long grey gulf of Lune, he had already known he’d never take the same path. And now, faced with the fate that he too would embrace, he knew that his choice gave him a chance, a gift that could only be given once.

 

Gently his fingers touched Aragorn’s forehead before Elrohir closed his eyes, sending a silent plea to Mandos to hear him in this hour of darkness and to accept the choice given freely.

 

And far away, thousands of leagues to the North Elrond Peredhel woke from his restless slumber, stirred by a pain that he had not felt in two long ages. The painful tear that sundered one of his blood from the family line forever, jerking to full wakefulness he again felt the vision he had so long ago brush against his mind. _Again he felt the heartwrenching pain, sensing the choice crushing down like a hammer… Elrohir standing at a broken fortress wall fighting legions Orcs among warriors of men… a field of blood… his son fighting… no regrets…_ and he knew it was coming to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel all leaden having written parts of it while I couldn’t sleep because it’s so hot. I apologize for all the mistakes, but my wonderful beta Harrylee94 is going on a looong trip and has no time for my crazy writing atm. (And honestly my writing speed is hard for any beta to deal with as I detest having to wait long for corrections.)
> 
> I decided to go with Theodred’s age in the movies, making him somewhat younger than Éomer. I know in the book he was older, but the younger version is still stuck in my head.


	23. The choice of a path

When Gríma turned back to Orthanc he could see the fires, not the flames of the infernal scorching of the pit, but campfires outside the Ring of Isengard where Lurz was gathering the army. He shuddered, so many fires, so many of them. How long would it take Lurz to reorganize these troops? Even with having to scrounge everything from the pit Gríma did not dare hope for more than a handful of days. The Uruk-hai needed remarkably little to be dangerous.

 

A movement in the shadows gave him pause. Had he just seen an Orc creep through the night? He peered towards the point where he saw the movement in the darkness, but there was nothing but a few branches quivering in the nightly wind. Nothing more. His nerves were playing tricks on him. A grim smile curled his lips; he had played the game of shadows for most of his life, and now he began to see things in the darkness. He should know better.

 

He nudged his horse into a sharp trot, using the hidden path he had so often followed when returning to Edoras in secret. Only this time his secret was out, and he was not returning to stay, or even survive. _It takes no courage to die – it’s surviving that takes nerve._ He almost could hear the voice that belonged with the words and he silently agreed. It would be easier to see his path end, to make a swift end, no more lurking in shadows, no more twisting words with witless warriors… Maybe he’d miss that. At least he left no one behind, no one who still needed him. Aelvorn was old enough to look after himself, and any further association with the name Gríma would do him more harm than good.

 

Lost in his own thoughts Gríma rode on the path that led to the Arltrees near the river and further on to Edoras. He did not turn around and did not notice the small shadowy figures following him.

 

TRB

 

A pale dawn graced the eastern horizon when Elrohir left the room where Aragorn was resting. He almost stumbled with exhaustion, quickly reaching for the wall of the hall to steady himself. While he was more tired than he had ever been before in his life, he felt better than he had in months. When he looked up and the cool morning wind caressed his face, he felt only the wind, the soft touch of dew in the air, but nothing else, no drain, no slow fading that was eating at his substance. He was rooted inthis world like never before. He took a step outside into the dim morning and again had to fight exhaustion.

 

A strong hand grabbed his arm, supporting him. “Are you alright?” He recognized Éomer’s voice. The Rohirrim did not look like he had seen any sleep in this night. Now his eyes were focused on Elrohir, echoing worry.

 

“I am fine, only a little tired,” Elrohir replied, taking a deep breath, trying to adjust to the new sensation. He felt heavier, more earthen, and yet more whole than he had been before.

 

“You better sit down, you look like you are ready to drop.” Éomer guided him a few steps away and helped him to find a place to rest on the stairs of the hall. “Your friend Aragorn, is he…?” he asked, when Elrohir had sat down on the stairs.

 

Elrohir knew it should not surprise him how quickly friendships grew among menfolk; they did not have the luxury of time to see them grow – and he should know that well, because he too had formed some friendships in the spur of tense moments and they had proven the best friendships of his life so far. “He will live,” he said, not hiding a smile. “He is sleeping now, but by the evening he should be awake again and come next morning he will be up and about.”

 

Éomer’s eyes widened. “How?” he asked, doubtfully. “Gandalf said there was nothing he could do – so do not tell me it was Elven magic.” In this moment the thought of magic or witchcraft going on amongst his people seemed to worry him less than it usually would worry any Rohirrim.

 

“It has happened, is it important how it did?” Elrohir tried to stave off the question. He had made his choice, a choice that had long had been made in his mind and he did not want any attention drawn to it. He felt different, changed, but it was a change that made him whole. To his own surprise he had to suppress a yawn, as the tiredness settled upon him. He shook his head; elves usually did not yawn.

 

“You have changed,” Éomer said softly. “Before you were like a ghost, an echo of an ancient story, a spirit still walking this world…” He was clearly searching for words to express himself. “But now, you are real, like you suddenly became one of us.”

 

“You could say that.” Elrohir had to admit Éomer was a sharper observer than he had guessed, but then… he did not know what visible changes the choice left. He was not one of the Firstborn any longer, he had chosen the path of the Secondborn, and what little he knew of the path of Mortals came from old books. He pushed himself up, standing with his own strength. He had never felt so strongly linked to the world before and it was a wonderful, heady feeling.

 

“Whatever it is, you need to rest or you will fall asleep right on these stairs,” Éomer said determinedly. “I will show you where you friends are resting.”

 

TRB

 

The line of burial mounds lay to the west of Edoras – a long line of barrows overgrown with Rohan’s green grass. Here rested the Kings of the Mark and their families, excepting Helm Hammerhand, who rested in the shadow of his mighty fortress, and the twin brothers Fastred and Folcred, who lay buried at the Fords of Poros far from their homeland. All Edoras had assembled at the mounds to watch King Theoden laid to rest. He had been a popular King, leading a largely prosperous rule, and his murder had come as a shock for his people.

 

Theodred stood at the high hill, Éomer and Éowyn beside him silently watching the proceedings. Rohirrim did not make speeches when they buried their Kings, nor did they have many elaborate ceremonies like the Southern Kings were said to have had. The memory of their Kings lived on in songs and ballads that would be handed down from generation to generation. Theodred knew that his heart was too full to yet hear any ballad about his father; such a song would inevitably bring out the pain in his heart and he had to keep that reined in well – presenting a strong façade to his people.

 

When the last was done and the grave closed over the resting King, the crowds began slowly to disperse, leaving in silence as they had come. Theodred remained where he was, the last at the grave of his father; that too was tradition. He looked to the side, to his cousins. He was glad they both were here. Having grown up with them, they were more like siblings to him. “Stay?” he asked them softly, only for them to hear.

 

Both of them stepped closer. Theirpresence had an almost protective edge, but to Theodred it was more like family closing ranks against a storm. They all three were tired, none of them had slept during the previous night, and they had barely had time to talk, or speak of what had happened. “I would have suspected many a man of treachery before thinking of Vandine or Athelstane,” Éowyn said in a low voice when they finally were alone.

 

“Saruman’s claws reached deeper than any of us could imagine,” Éomer’s voice was less low, but all the more grim. “It seems an irony that Gríma was the more honest snake in the end.”

 

Theodred straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “And we have no time to waste on debating the guilt of some and the lesser guilt of others,” he said to them, turning around so he could face both of them. “War is rising in the East. We have long known it would come and now the time is here. Gondor is already fighting and we have to expect them to call for our allegiance any day by now. I am… I am grateful that Boromir of Gondor has given us the time to grieve before speaking of war.”

 

“You expect him to give the call?” Éomer asked. “I would have expected a messenger of his father soon – though rumor has it that they are still holding the River.”

 

“You are the warrior, Éomer.” Theodred looked at his cousin, his almost older brother. “How long do you think can they hold the riverline when the East truly sends its legions marching?”

 

“Less than a month, most likely not so much as a week if the Enemy truly commits the bulk of his forces,” Éomer said, his eyes straying over the wide plains surrounding them. “And Gondor will need riders; they hardly have any and that plain between the river and the city is the ideal ground for riders. Though… Gondor will hardly know how our numbers look these days.”

 

“That is why we will need a plan,” Theodred said firmly. “We will have to commit every rider we have and all we can recruit in between.”

 

“But what of our people?” Éowyn asked, throwing back her head. “Who will protect them when all the fighters are gone? The Westfold never was save these last decades, not speaking of the Northern border.”

 

“We will have to move our people to the Eastmarch and the Mountains,” Theodred said. He knew this was not the best of choices but they had not many options. The Kings of Rohan had sworn to aid Gondor in times of need, in times of war – and there was no doubt that such times were upon them. To refuse such aid would be dishonorable, to not plan such aid by themselves would be dishonorable too, Rohan had existed in the shadow of Gondor’s protection for many centuries, and they would not leave Gondor to fight alone in the hour of darkness. “It is the Goblin’s choice – either have the dangers of the Westfold and the Northern border, or be closer to the Eastern dangers should Gondor be overrun. Yet in the Mountains they can survive longest, hide better from the enemy.”

 

“Aldburg in Eastmarch could certainly house the double of the people yet living there, and would hold out a good while,” Éomer agreed. “And the Mountains are full of hideouts.” 

 

“We will have to bring whatever supplies are left from last winter,” Éowyn said. “Those hiding in the Mountains can keep the livestock and whatever cattle we can bring there, the éoreds will need the grain and other food. We best organize that at the same time as the muster.” She stopped, her words trailing off as she looked at Theodred. “Do not ask me to stay behind and take care of the old and infirm.”

 

Theodred met her eyes; he knew how much she feared being left behind, being left to wait for those who would not return, could not return. The day she had lost her parents and almost her brother had marked his chosen sister. Éowyn was no weak girl; she was strong, with a cool head and of the two of them she was the better swordsman. “I’d never dream of it, it would be like cutting off my right arm,” he said warmly. “But Éowyn… we do not ride to one battle, or just to defend our homeland. This… this is the end of our time and age. The Shadow is looming in the East and we might well spend our last days scurrying around trying to stem a flood that cannot be held.”

 

Éomer and his sister exchanged a short glance; the siblings rarely needed more to communicate. “Then so be it,” Éowyn said. “Then either we all three will ride back from that war to rebuild our home, or they can bury us all by the shores of an unnamed river.” Theodred’s and her hand interlinked, Éomer’s joining them a moment later. They did not need to say more, their path was set. It was the three of them from here on out, until the Shadow take them.

 

TRB

 

The first arrow struck Gríma’s horse in the neck. The wounded animal shrieked and stumbled, collapsing to the ground. Gríma had swiftly dismounted before he could be buried under the dying beast. Like all Rohirrim the death of the noble steed pained him; he wished he could risk aiding the horse in its final moments, but he already had to duck under more Orc arrows. Hastily he scrambled uphill. The Orcs hunting him were no more than a scouting party; he had to try and lose them in the rugged grounds.

 

Another arrow hissed by him, but he hastened on, using the few trees for whatever cover they provide. A guttural growl made him turn around; two Orcs had cut off his path, the first drawing his sword with an anticipatory grin. Gríma drew his blade, though the gesture alone felt so useless he almost laughed. He never had been much of a swordsman, not even in his youth, and he stood as little chance as a child would against those creatures. No, he must not give in easily, he had to reach Edoras. He raised his sword and attacked. It felt clumsy, too heavy in his hands, but somewhere buried inside him were the exercises of old. He parried the Orc’s blade, pushing him back, ducking under another attack, butthe third threw him to the ground. He rolled through the mud, coming back to his feet.

 

An arrow struck his side and he stumbled anew, the Orcs advanced on him. With desperate strength Gríma rammed his blade into the belly of the first coming close, before he was thrown down himself. He saw a steel blade rise above him, knowing he was about to die. It was a strange realization. But then the blade dropped as the Orc fell from a quick blade.

 

Gríma pushed himself up. A tall warrior had appeared on the hillside, his horse standing down by the river, and he made swift work of the scouting Orcs. Gríma did not see much of him; aside of scale mail armor and light hair, his face was hidden behind a scarf of the same color as the heavy woolen cloak he wore. When the fight was over, the warrior came over and squatted down beside him. “Don’t tell me that was your first Orc,” he said in a clear, pleasant voice.

 

It was not the voice Gríma recognized, though it was familiar, though he could hear the sing-sang Aldburg accent in it much clearer than he heard in others’ voices. It was the eyes he recognized at once – grey eyes with just a faint tinge of blue. “Aeonar… how?” He pushed himself up to sit fully, wincing at the arrow gash in his side.

 

The other man pulled down the scarf, revealing a lean face, weathered by years under sun and wind. “It _was_ your first Orc, Gríma,” he said, before turning to the injury. “And now hold still. It is only a gash. You were lucky.”

 

“What are you doing here?” Gríma disregarded the pain in his side. “If you are found, you will be hanged…”

 

“No one thinks of hanging a man who has been dead for years.” Aeonar made swift work of the wound, wrapping it with a clean bandage. “And they are welcome to do so, if they insist. I could die in any land these days, the choice is easy, but I will die a Rohirrim and on the land I still call home.”

 

Gríma sighed; that was so Aeonar, stubborn and proud to the last. “I often wondered where you might have been all these years.” He had often tried to imagine what had happened to Aeonar after he had rode off into that stormy spring night, leaving Rohan behind forever.

 

“Mostly up North.” Aeonar shook his head. “I would have been back earlier, but the land that gave me shelter for so long haditsshare of fighting too. I could only leave after it was over. But Gríma – what are you doing here?”

 

With the bandage in place Gríma made it back to his feet. Yes, he could walk. “I need to reach Edoras, to warn them. Aeonar – Saruman is unleashing his armies against Rohan. If Edoras is not warned, they will fall before they can even try to defend themselves.”

 

“And here I thought an Easterling Army was the biggest trouble in the world,” Aeonar grumbled. “Come, Gríma, we will be in Edoras before the night is out.”

 

TRB

 

The early afternoon sun already had the warmth of a true spring day, and Boromir welcomed the warmth. After the long journey through cold and winter the sun warming the grass was a welcome reprieve. But more of a reprieve was being alone for a while. Ever since they had been captured he had hardly had a moment to think, to stop and let the events sink in. Sitting down on the grass behind the hall he watched the hustle and bustle by the stables, letting the calm slowly sink in. Near the stables, by the forge he could see Kíli tinkering together a kind of double scabbard for the two curved Orc sabres he had taken from Isengard, talking to the old Rohirrim blacksmith while he worked.

 

The sight was strange and utterly familiar all the same, and now after what Saruman had done Boromir understood why he felt that way. Saruman… the Palantír… he had not thought about that since waking in the cell. Deep down Boromir knew that Saruman had torn down a barrier that had not been meant to be broken – and in a way he was glad it had happened. When he looked at Kíli he could see other pictures in his mind – a day in the Lone Lands near the ruins of Annúminas, where they had met again… his own startled realization of how young Kíli was, and other pictures – a meeting deep in the bowels of a mountain. Goblin Town – that place certainly had been part of their friendship. Some of the memories were garbled, full of gaps and holes, like only glimpses at his own life from before, while his memories of their journey against the Dragon were mostly crystal clear. Sometimes it felt like he knew something, but the details suddenly started to blur.

 

Through all of this remained a strong feeling of understanding; he finally knew again who he truly was, who he had always been. He was complete, the man he had chosen to be. He looked down to his bare forearm where the dragon curled around his elbow. He had long wondered why he had been born with this mark, why fate at singled him out like that – sometimes wondered what it would mean eventually. Now he knew that it was there because he had chosen it, because a mercy of fate had permitted him to keep the link to his friend, to allow his soul to remember what the mind should not know. Boromir smiled, now that he understood it he was grateful to Eru and Mahal that they had permitted this mercy to pass.

 

Looking up he saw Anvari approach the forge. The young dwarf bore a close resemblance to Kíli, except that his hair was darker and his eyes were the cold blue the family was so famous for. Kíli as a father… From what Boromir remembered of him, fatherhood was not something he would have associated with Kíli, though it seemed right for Anvari.

 

Anvari drew the dragonsword he was still carrying. “You lost this in Amon Hen,” he said, offering it back to Kíli.

 

But the older dwarf shook his head. “No, Anvari, it is right that you have it. Asutri will have Winterflame by now – the blades were always made for brothers and now that Fíli…” Kíli’s voice grew husky when he spoke his brother’s name. “Now that he passed on, the blades are in the right hands with you and your brother.”

 

“I sometimes almost can sense that Asutri is wielding the other blade,” Anvari said softly. “Like there is an echo I can feel of him.” He sheathed the sword and looked up to Kíli. “How are you holding up? You seem… calmer now.”

 

Kíli reached out, ruffling Anvari’s hair in an almost big-brotherly fashion. “I am… calmer, that is. Time will do the rest. I am beginning to accept it – maybe even Mahal had his troubles with Thorin and had to send for Fíli so soon, because of his good influence on him.” It was not much of a joke, and they did not laugh, but there was a quiet smile they shared, before lightly touching their foreheads against each other.

 

When Anvari left, Kíli slipped the makeshift scabbards with the two sabres over his back and walked up to Boromir. The way he approached reminded Boromir of days past – no matter how much Kíli had changed, he too was fundamentally the same person he had always been, no matter what twisting paths their souls had to navigate. “Did someone even take a look at your wounds since we escaped?” Kíli asked, casting a pointed glance at a few healing gashes at Boromir’s arms.

 

“Nothing serious. Saruman had his healers look at the worst wounds before he started playing with my mind,” Boromir shrugged. “A few scratches won’t kill me.” He saw Kíli’s gaze and suddenly realized that Kíli knew him as well as Boromir knew Kíli, that he read him just as effortlessly.

 

“Still the aversion against the healers.” Kíli’s deep voice echoed bemusement. “I think I saw some elfroot down by the brook. It should be enough to help with these gashes.”

 

Boromir pushed himself up form where he had been sitting and walked with Kíli down towards the brook outside of Edoras. His mind was still trying to keep hold of the jumbled memories the Palantír had left him with, and sorting through the much more vivid memories of the journey to Erebor, but right now things were falling in place, becoming right again.

 

TRB

 

Theodred had been speaking to Háma when he saw the Rider on the hills outside Edoras – a rider on a black Meáras, galloping towards the sloping road that led up to Edoras itself. Recalling his father’s dying words, he interrupted his conversation with Háma. “My horse, quick.” He knew Háma had seen the Rider as well.

 

The guards reacted swiftly, bringing Theodred’s horse. When he mounted he gestured Háma to remain behind. “I will go alone – do not try to send riders after me,” he ordered before spurring his horse into a sharp trot, riding out of the gates.

 

Finding the rider was easy; the grounds around Edoras were rolling hills with little room for hiding, especially as Edoras itself had been built on the highest hill of the area. He easily could see the black horse standing by the roadside not far from Edoras, just around the bend and out of the immediate sight of the gateguards.

 

Theodred nudged his horse to stand in a close distance to the black Meáras, surprised to see two men stand beside the horse. “No, Aeonar, I will go alone.” He recognized Gríma’s voice at once. “This is my doing, my guilt, and if I walk to my death I would prefer to not drag you down with me.”

 

“If it is your guilt, it is mine as well – for I can imagine how it began,” the other man said stubbornly. “And they will have to heed your warning swiftly, and have little time for passing judgment.”

 

Gríma snorted. “You have lived in the North too long, my friend. Judgment is found very swiftly in these parts. Hanging a man is something that does not take too long.”

 

Theodred dismounted his horse. He felt like he was treading the shifting grounds of the Entmurks here. “And I told you that if you wished to return to us, Gríma, I would hear you out,” he said firmly. “Though you sound like you have other reasons for returning here.”

 

Gríma turned around, and Theodred was surprised to see the change in the sly, often sneaking advisor of his father, for Gríma stood tall, meeting his eyes evenly. “Saruman may be deprived of his powers, Prince Theodred, but he is not yet deprived of all his power. He still has almost 11,000 troops and will unleash them on Rohan in revenge for what happened. I doubt they will need more than another day to be ready to march.”

 

“You came to warn us?” Theodred was sure Gríma meant it; he had never seen him so – open, so direct, like he had laid bare the very core of his being.

 

“I may be a traitor, Prince Theodred, for reasons of my own, but I never wished my people to perish.” Gríma’s answer was firm, calm. “Saruman knows I got away and while he,” he looked at his companion, “killed the Orcs that came after me, I am sure Saruman can guess where I went. He lost his powers, not his wits.”

 

Theodred looked at the man standing with Gríma. He was Rohirrim, there was no doubt about that, and he had a vaguely familiar face, though Theodred could not place it. “And who are you? I do not recall having seen you before… except for last night when you shot my father’s murderer.”

 

“I came too late to prevent his ill deed,” the other rider replied. “Though I knew what he was capable off, I doubted he would raise his hand against the King. And they call me Halwen these days.”

 

“Halwen, the Lone One, you chose to hide your name, and by your actions I assume that you are Gríma’s friend,” Theodred observed. He could read as much into their interactions. “And it is true – with these tidings I do not have the time to hear your story Gríma, for good or ill, our people have to fight if they want to survive Saruman’s wrath.” He held the man’s gaze, trying to measure him. “Have you truly broken free from Saruman, Gríma?”

 

Gríma’s smile was a self-depreciating one. “I have broken all oaths that I ever swore, and shattered my blood oath to Saruman. But what use is the word of an Oathbreaker to you?”

 

“Your actions show me that you still care what happens to our people, Gríma, no matter what grudges you bore my family in the past. And in this hour of darkness Rohan cannot afford to turn aside any man willing to defend her – nor will I allow past grievances to break us apart. If you are willing to fight, you both are welcome with us – the Light give that there will be a better time when I can hear out your story and understand what drove you on your path.”

 

TRB

 

To Elrond it would always be the valley of autumn, maybe because the red willows by the river gave it the warm, earthy colors of fall all year round. Even now, in early spring, their branches shone with reddish young leaves over the rushing waters of the running river. But it was not what made him halt his horse on the hill above the riverside. Having come from Lothlorien where he had conferred with Galadriel, he had learned what answer a letter he had written the previous winter had received. But now that he was here, it was memories that stayed his advance.

 

Down in the valley by the river he could see a camp, grey tents almost merging with the ground, and paler tense that still blended in with their surroundings, easily overlooked by the untrained eye. Warriors moved to and fro, their steps light in spite of the armor, many of them wearing the seemingly grey cloaks that made them blend in with their surroundings as well. The camp seemed to have no true form, but set as was dictated by the grounds, but in truth it consisted of three circles, interwoven at the halves, where their guard lines met. It was strange – he had not seen such a camp in a long time, in years beyond counting and yet he felt home when he approached it. If he forgot about the rushing river it was easy to believe that he was still seeing a camp somewhere in the woodlands of Dorthonion.

 

Slowly he led his horse downhill and past the outer ring of tents, the guards letting him pass without a word, only strengthening his feeling of coming home. In such camps, hidden in the woodlands he had grown from an elfling into a young warrior and no matter what others later would say of his story, it had been home. At the heart of the camp he saw two familiar figures, both in full armor, one with the dark hair of the Noldor, the other with the fiery red hair of Nerdanel’s line. If anything could make this warcamp feel like the one he had once called home it was their presence. He had hoped for their support, but hardly believed they would choose to fight another war. Now he knew different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful Elianna Dunla http://archiveofourown.org/users/EllianaDunla/pseuds/EllianaDunla who took it upon herself to contest with my English grammar errors and my writing speed. *hugs* Don’t forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!!


	24. A time to stand

Gauging how many warriors a war camp held was never easy amongst elves, even for the well trained eye, especially if the camp was in the midst of break up, but Elrond could easily tell that the camp by the river held no small number of fighters, most of them Noldor, with a compliment of Egandir’s sea elves adding to their number. “I had hoped for your support, but hardly dared hope you would join the fight yourself – nor what numbers you could bring,” he said to the two elven warriors walking with him, their very presence making him feel like this was a different time, a different battle they spoke of.

 

“We sent word to all those still willing to follow us,” Maedhros answered. Like in the past he took the lead in all things war. “And I hope you will aid us in calming our dear cousin upriver, for she will angry when she learns who slipped past her borders to join us.”

 

Elrond smothered a smile. It had taken him a long time to understand the tensions that ran in this family. He had always been aware that some of the surviving Noldor might have found shelter or a hideout in the shadows of the golden wood, but they had been youngsters, often children of the Feanorean warriors, which he had assumed to having severed from their parents’ loyalties. Now that he heard Maedhros’ words he began to wonder how many loyalties had been passed on in secret, or how many of those children or their children in turn were drawn to follow the call of their ancestors. He understood them all too well, though he could imagine Galadriel’s anger on the topic. “She already mentioned something to that effect,” he said, as they continued their walk. “And she cannot send troops to fight south, for there is also Dol Guldur to contend with.”

 

He stopped, to meet their gaze. “And I half wondered if you would choose to go South or join the battle North. Erebor has been under Siege since autumn.” And he knew that Maedhros was not the Elf to leave a land that had sheltered him for so long in danger.

 

“They broke the Siege before Winter’s End and gave the Easterling army a beating that they won’t forget any time soon,” Maedhros informed him. “And they too had already sent an army south. This battle will be decided before the walls of the Black Lands.”

 

Elrond did not ask how the brothers knew of Erebor already, because their own ties to that land might well be the reason. “There is little word on the war south. No one can foresee how long Gondor will hold, or when their defensive line along the river will break, but the East is marshaling it’s armies to overrun them.”

 

Maglor’s eyes turned south, as if he could spot the peaks of the Mountains of Shadow all the many, many miles southeast of them. “There is little need in learning what is now, Elrond. We will learn what we need to know when we approach the battle lines. We have already sent some of ours ahead to scout a swift path across the plains of Calenardhon.” His gaze returned to Elrond. “But what about the North? And with the many forces pouring south, we leave the North largely undefended. Will you be able to hold out?”

 

“You are right that this war will be decided at the gates of the Black Lands,” Elrond replied. “And Rivendell is well defended. We will hold out and assist others should another danger fall upon us. With Elladan in charge of that, I am more than tempted to come with you and fight.” He had not meant to say the last bit out loud, but it was true, as true as it had been so long ago, when he had been but a young fighter and the great dark war had drawn to the end. Only a word of them and he would have gone with them, no matter where, no matter to what end. His own people might not understand why, reviling the very thought of it, but it was true. And now, much older and a youth no longer, he still was tempted to join with them again, much as he had thought he had no wish to fight another battle at the black gates.

 

Maglor smiled, his eyes warming. “No, Elrond, your people will need you in Eriador – more than ever should the battle in the south fail. Your path leads to a different destiny than ours.”

 

He had heard those words before – in a different age on a stormy morning in the woods. It had been their goodbye then. Aelin and Irdavel had been charged to bring Elrond and Elros safely to Gil-Galad and his people, while Maedhros and Maglor planned their last ride… a path into the night. And like then, Elrond felt now that it might well be a goodbye forever. What fate could tell him if they were permitted to meet again beyond these shores? Had it not been for the Ring he had been guarding for long years, he would have shrugged it off, trusted his son to handle the North and gone with them. But he knew he must not expose one of three to the Enemy. “May the Light shine upon you,” he said, knowing this was goodbye.

 

“And upon you, may a star guide you home, when the time is there,” Maedhros replied, Maglor echoing the words. Egandir approached, leading their horses to them. The rest of the camp was already mounted and ready to march. The three circles of tents had vanished like the mists of the morning under the sun; there would be no traces left behind that an elven army had camped here.

 

Both brothers mounted their horses, taking the lead of the long column of riders that began to move at their command. Elrond watched them as they rode under the hanging branches of the red willows out into the valley of the river and south – the hooves of their horses soft and almost silent on the ground, the entire marching column passing silently, like a dream fading into dawn. His heart was heavy for he had to remain behind and to return to Rivendell to attend to his duties awaiting him back north. “May Mandos guide your path and bring you home,” he whispered when his eyes caught the sight of two familiar figures down at the bend of the river valley.

 

TRB

 

“Eleven thousand – are you sure he is right about these numbers?” Éomer’s voice echoed shock more than actual disbelief at hearingwhat Gríma had warned them of.

 

“He overheard the Orc leader report to Saruman, so we should assume the number is correct.” Theodred stood at the long table in the golden Hall, his eyes on the few people assembled here. Éomer and his sister Éowyn, Gandalf and his companions and Háma. Most of them were warriors, fighters of experience, and he felt the burden of decision settle on his shoulders all the heavier. “It is not a number we could ever match, not with the best of circumstances, and we need to protect our people.”

 

“I have already sent riders to the settlements away from Edoras to fall back here,” Éomer said. “If Isengard truly needs to reorganize their troops, our people will still have a chance to flee.” In that way all the chaos and the torching of the pit worked in their favor now.

 

“Fleeing will be of little help to you when open war is upon you.” Gandalf’s voice was calm yet stern. “And fleeing will easily break your people’s courage when you should stay and defend them.”

 

Theodred felt the heat rise in his cheeks. There was truth in Gandalf’s words; a King had to fight and protect his people, though the Mountains were their best chance in the long run. Before he could speak, Boromir stepped forward; he had been conversing with Aragorn in hushed tones before. Now he stood, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, eyes trained on Gandalf. “And what be your plan for that?” he asked grimly. “Edoras is less defensible than Helm’s Deep. The walls of Edoras are easily overcome and the city is much more vulnerable than their fortress is. How would you defend Rohan from this position?”

 

“We could empty the city,” Kíli spoke up quietly, “send the people to their other fortresses, Aldburg and Helm’s Deep, and then lure the enemy into Edoras. Once they are inside, we set the city aflame, trap them between us and a fiery death. I recall there was an ancient network of tunnels under Edoras. We could use that to move about while they would be trapped in the fire.”

 

Relieved as he was for Boromir’s support, Theodred’s eyes went to the dwarven warrior standing beside the Captain of Gondor. “The tunnels are old and hardly known,” he observed. “How come you have heard of them?”

 

Kíli met his gaze evenly, and there was a trace of warmth in his dark eyes when he spoke. “I came through this land before, Theodred, during your great-great-grandfather’s time, and though I was only a child at the time, I still recall Edoras well and the tunnel exposed when the old royal stables collapsed into one.”

 

“Still, your plan would mean the destruction of all of Edoras.” Éowyn shook her head. “And we would lose as many men to the fire as to the enemy.”

 

“We will go to Helm’s Deep,” Theodred decided. Their plans were desperate enough as it was, without any even crazier ideas. “It is the best chance we have to protect our people. But we will still need any and all warriors that we can get. Éomer, I need you to ride to Deeping-comb and find Erkenbrand of Westfold with whatever men he still has. Bring them to Helm’s deep. Have Ingvar ride to Aldburg with the same errand. Háma, announce to Edoras that we are leaving before the night falls.”

 

When the three had left, Theodred turned to Éowyn. Her gaze met his. “Don’t tell me I am responsible for the women and children,” she said, but there was a warm, understanding edge in her voice.

 

“Rauthgundis will see to that,” Theodred replied. “But I need you to work with her – to find all those amongst the women who, like you, can wield a weapon. Find them and take charge of them during the march. We will need them.” A century ago there might have been a stir in the hall at such an order being voiced, but now after losing so many men to the Orc incursions and with the constant pressure the land had been under for too long, no one spoke up. Theodred knew that while it had been a long practice of Rohan that women were well capable of defending their homes, he might be the first King to acknowledge it openly. And while his soul was heavy with that burden, he knew he it was the only way.

 

 

TRB

 

The long shadows of afternoon were already upon Edoras when Aragorn walked with Gandalf towards the stables. Since he had woken from his injury he had found little time to realize that he was indeed alive or wonder how he had survived. He still felt the wound in his chest and the weakness had not yet faded from him, but he did not allow both to drag him under. Shortly after he had woken, Boromir had been with him, telling him what had transpired and what was headed their way, his short, decisive report leaving little doubt that they all were needed.

 

“Helm’s Deep is a death trap and I fear for them,” Gandalf shook his head sternly. “There is no way out of that ravine and it might end in slaughter.”

 

“It is the best chance they have to protect their people,” Aragorn pointed out. “The ravine is narrow, so the enemy forces will be hard pressed to bring their numbers to bear. Helm’s Deep has saved Rohan before, and it will do so again.”

 

Gandalf’s eyebrows furrowed and he looked at him sharply. “Theodred is a young leader, Aragorn, and not proven in war. He will need you and your strength before it is all over. I will ride to Isengard again, little use though it might be to us, maybe I can stop Saruman’s doings before they come to fruition.”  Watching Gandalf mount Shadowfax, Aragorn stepped aside, making room for him as the horse raced from the stables.

 

Turning around Aragorn saw Boromir, who had watched the scene as well. The warrior shook his head in a resigned manner. “He hasn’t changed all that much,” he said when he became aware of Aragorn’s gaze.

 

“In that he is speaking cryptically still, he truly did not change,” Aragorn replied with a small smile. There were some things about Mithrandir that would never change, but it was good to know that there were those of his kind in the world.

 

“More in never saying what his plan is.” Boromir’s voice held the edge of a grumble, Aragorn noticed, and he had fallen into a stance he knew all too well by now. Whenever Boromir was pressed into a confrontingsituation he would assume the same pose – arms crossed in front of his chest, shoulders tense and eyes trained on his opponent. “He suggested we stay and fight, though we’d be overwhelmed much faster here thanat the Hornburg. I sometimes wonder what his plan for the dragon was…”

 

The words surprised Aragorn, striking a chord of memories from days long ago, nothing more than a childhood memory, never forgotten. Without even thinking Aragorn’s hand sank to the short sword that he still wore. He had never given the blade up; it had saved his life more than once. He did not ask how it was possible, or why… Knowing that his memory had not tricked him was enough. “Our dragon is named Saruman, I’m afraid,” he said, bringing their conversation back to the present. “And he will be a hard foe to fight.”

 

TRB

 

Éowyn was not sure if she was glad or tense when she saw the mouth of the Deep opening before them. The march across the plains had lasted all night, the next day and a new night. There had been hardly a break, and no full stop of the trek  to allow the tired any rest. She had to admit that Rauthgundis had kept a good hand on the marching people – making sure the weakest were helped along by those still strong, that no one remained behind. The tall plain-faced woman was a widow who could have been Éowyn’s mother, and had taken to the task assigned to her with skill and a quick wit. As she came striding up to Éowyn her walk belied that she had been up for two days and back and forth along the trek on top of that. “I’ve sent you some more girls from Wyldburg, my Lady,” she said, falling into step beside Éowyn. “They are good with a bow and most of their families were sensible enough to teach their daughters how to defend a home.”

 

“They already arrived here,” Éowyn replied, as they walked over the rocky grounds that led up to the entrance of the long ravine. “I know you hardly approve, Rauthgundis, and I appreciate your work all the more for it.”

 

The older woman shook her head. “I might hate to see our daughters sent to fight, but what other choices do we have? We have had too little warriors ever since the Orc incursions. My husband, the fourth éored… they all lie in the same valley where your brave father fell to hold off the Orcs, and we both know how many fell since.” Her eyes went west, towards the still dark skies of a slowly dawning morning. “Should that finally be the people from the Westfold?” she asked, pointing towards a long column of people following a path along the rugged edge of the Mountains.

 

“If so, they took the High Path for some reason,” Éowyn said, narrowing her eyes to see better. “It would be the longer path to take for them, though.” She quickened her stride, to get to the head of the column. “Come with me, Rauthgundis. We better find out swiftly.”

 

When they reached the point where the mountain path descended into the ravine, Éowyn was not surprised to see Theodred and a few warriors there as well. They must have spotted the marchers earlier than them.

 

It was a long trek of people coming down the Mountain path, old people, woman and children, many stumbling from exhaustion. They carried little, Éowyn noticed, beyond small bundles on their backs, and they were pale from too long a march. “Careful, the path is steep, let me help you,” Éowyn heard the clear voice of a girl, leading a tall horse. She let the horse stand where it was and helped an old woman, who carried a child on her back, down a steep slope of rocks.

 

“Thank you, Brithonin,” the old woman said in a raspy voice, as she was down the steepest bit.

 

The girl gave her a short nod. “Can you ask Othaine to gather the people by the mouth of the ravine, Agwyn?” she asked the old woman. “I will have to go back and see we didn’t lose stragglers before long.”

 

Éowyn’s eyes widened. Should that girl be in charge of this group? Where were their men? The name also sounded familiar, and though she certainly had not seen Erkenbrand’s daughter in a number of years, she recognized Brithonin again. Determinedly she strode up to the girl, noticing that a pregnant woman and another child were mounted on the back of the horse she was leading. When she approached, the girl stopped for a moment. “My Lady.” She swiftly bowed in almost warrior fashion. “It is a relief to see you.”

 

“It is good to see you too, Brithonin,” Éowyn said, “though we had hoped to encounter the people from the Westfold much sooner. Where are your father and his men?” While she spoke she too aided a few children to climb down the steep path, noticing that their clothes were singed, their faces tear-streaked.

 

“My father will not come, my Lady.” Brithonin handed the reins of her horse to Rauthgundis to see it guided down and, like Éowyn, turned to help others. “Isengard’s orcs raided the Westfold the day before yesterday. There is no settlement standing between the fords of Isen and Deepening-comb. Those who made it to Deepening-comb, my father sent on the path towards Helm’s Deep, while he and his men will hold off whatever Orcs come after them.” Brithonin’s voice was forcibly firm as she spoke. Éowyn could almost hear how she suppressed the shaking tones.

 

“Our warning came too late?” Éowyn asked, horrified. They had hoped that their riders could warn the people soon enough, but it seemed it had been in vain.

 

“Most of them never reached us, my Lady,” Brithonin told her. “Only one was found by my father – shot by Orcs and almost dying. He gave the warning, but by that time half the Westfold was burning already. They are like a black flood rising from the deeps – and they burn all that stands in their path. More and more Dunlendings are joining them as they advance.”

 

A cold shiver ran down Éowyn’s spine. The enmity of the Rohirrim and the Dunlendings went back to the days of the very founding of Rohan and to the later battles of the long winter. If their hate joined the Uruk-hai of Isengard, a bloodbath was almost certainly the outcome. No, she told herself, they would not give in to their fears, not when there still were choices they had. “Helm’s Deep will break even their flood,” she said firmly. “Brithonin, have any girl or woman that can wield a bow or use a sword report to me, once we are down in the ravine. The Orcs may have burned your home, but they will find no easy pickings on the walls of the Hornburg.” Even while she spoke she wondered where her brother might be now. Had he reached Erkenbrand? Or had he too fallen victim to a quick Orc arrow?

 

TRB

 

The long wall was impressive, Aragorn had to admit. Blocking the entire breadth of the ravine it created a mighty obstacle before the Hornburg itself, which seemed like one powerful monolith carved from rock. On most other days he would have found the sheer strength of these walls comforting, but not today. While more and more of the populace was filing down into the deep caves beneath the Hornburg, the Rohirrim began to arm all their fighters – apart from their warriors, most of those were old men, youths and the girls under Éowyn’s leadership. “How to create a bulwark from these stones?” he asked, his voice only loud enough for the man to whom he had addressed the words to hear.

 

Boromir arched an eyebrow. “I don’t see much improvement necessary in the walls. Their defense is an entirely different matter.”

 

The man was sometimes very literal and it had Aragorn nearly laugh. There was something direct, to the point about Boromir, something entirely focused at the task. Sometimes it was frightening, but in moments like this it was encouraging. “ _We are but stones in the water alone and on our own, but together we are a bulwark that will not break._ You told me that in Rivendell and… I wonder how to even begin. Look at them; they are farmers, stablehands and children… not soldiers.”

 

“I have seen farmers, stablehands and sons of craftsmen fight well,” Boromir said firmly, his eyes still on the hustle and bustle around them. “Though these certainly need some organization, and what is more – they need hope. They carry too much doubt with them. A man who believes he has to lose a fight, will always lose.”

 

Aragorn could sense that Boromir had not said all there was to say. It showed in the swift glance of the green eyes towards Theodred conversing with Háma. “There is more to it, is there? What else do you see?”

 

Boromir slowly opened his hands, which had been curled to fists. “Theodred is young, and he is not a warrior – not proven on the battlefield, and that sows doubts into the minds of his people, of his fighters especially. Éomer is not here and even if he were… neither of them has ever seen a full-fledged siege. But beyond all that, they need hope… They need to believe that they can last through this night.”

 

Aragorn understood what Boromir was saying, the words that remained unsaid, but were there underneath it all. It was a nudge and maybe also an expectation. In Rivendell they might have agreed on not speaking of Aragorn’s legacy, of the bloodline he carried and all that was connected with it, but in a moment like this neither of them could disregard it. And Aragorn knew that it could not be easy for Boromir to wait for him to take the lead; Boromir was strong and a leader in his own right. Waiting for another to take charge certainly must grate on his temper and still he did it, because he believed it right. “I will join with Theodred,” Aragorn said after a moment of silence. “Elrohir is already with their archers, though I think we need to spread them more along the wall.” He pointed towards the armory. “Can you take charge of all those who get armed, but seem to have neither lead nor unit?”

 

It was a fine line they’d be walking, between supporting the Rohirrim without undermining Theodred’s leadership, but Aragorn knew it could be done. It had to be done.

 

TRB

 

They were lacking experienced fighters, Boromir had to admit. Otherwise someone would long have taken charge of all the youths that had been sent to the armory. The weapon’s stash of the Hornburg was impressive enough to arm every last fighter they had and keep weapons over, but that was where the chaos began. He spotted two boys – a lanky youth about fifteen and another who might be a little younger – who were trying to keep some coordination amongst the youngest fighters, pointing the boys to the place outside where the sharpening wheels were to get their blades taken care of.

 

He heard them converse as he approached them. “Have them gather by the old stables, then see to whom to report,” the younger one just said. “With none of the marshals here and two éoreds without a leader, the auxiliaries should be the responsibility of the fourth éored.”

 

“Which is hardly here,” the older of the two shrugged. “But you are right, Haleth.”

 

Both straightened up when they saw Boromir, turning towards him. “How many have you gathering here?” Boromir asked, going straight to the point.

 

“We have counted one hundred and thirty so far, my Lord,” Haleth replied. “But more are being sent from the caves all the time.”

 

Nearly half a banner with more coming. Boromir was not surprised to hear it; with all the people that had fled here, the number of youngsters had to be high. “What are your names?” he asked them both, while his eyes quickly went over the yard, assessing the age of shape of those sent here to fight.

 

“Raedan and Haleth,” was the swift answer of the older one. “Your dwarf comrades are over there, with the sharpening wheels. They asked to help…” His voice trailed off, betraying his insecurity.

 

Boromir’s eyes had already found Kíli and Anvari, helping with sharpening blades or making swift adjustments to gear. They worked easily amongst the hustle and bustle of men and he could hear Kíli’s voice now and then, with an encouraging word for the young warriors he was working with. “Raedan, have a runner sent to Lord Aragorn. I need to know who is in charge of the East Wall. Haleth, send several boys through the fortress to pick up all other young recruits that have not been sent to Lady Éowyn.” Organizing them would be a first step, finding their position in the coming fight was next. As the boys sped off to fulfill their tasks, Boromir strode through the commotion to Kíli, who just handed a freshly sharpened blade to a young fighter. They would make sure the boys were ready come nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note
> 
> This chapter comes with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful Elianna Dunla   
> http://archiveofourown.org/users/EllianaDunla/pseuds/EllianaDunla who took it upon herself to contest with my English grammar errors and my writing speed. *hugs* Don’t forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!!


	25. Under the Storm

****

Thunder rolled along the ravine of Helm’s Deep like a fierce battle drum, drowning out the marching sounds of the Uruk-hai host as they approached the fortress. The echoes of each new thunder rang out along the rocks, intermingling with the following thunder until it became an almost constant noise. The first swaths of rain were pouring down on the walls, the wind driving them forth.

 

From his vantage point at the battlements of the Eastern Wall Boromir cast a swift glance at the defenders around him. Many too young, two hastily cobbled together banners to hold the most constricted part of the walls, close to the steeper edge of the deep itself. At the far end an ancient watchtower rose at the end of the wall, but it had been in disrepair for so long that it was not really considered a part of the defense any longer. “Look at them, they are huge… how can weeven fight them?” he heard a young voice from only a step below ask.

 

“You can’t. Alone against them you lose.” Kíli’s deep voice was a harsh contrast to the youthful speaker. “But together you can. Tackle them like wolves tackle a bear to pull them down, never lose sight of your comrades, protect each other, support each other and we all will make it through this night.”

 

The words had a powerful, firm quality that left little room for doubts, and Boromir was glad Kíli was with them. He and Boromir himself were the only two battle veterans on this part of the wall, and while Anvari had the full training of a warrior beyond doubt, Boromir could tell the dwarven youth had never seen a full flung battle. Why Kíli had assigned his son to the youngest group of the banner to support them, was something Boromir could not quite tell – it put an extra responsibility on Anvari’s shoulders. But then, he had seen to what amount of responsibility Durin’s House was raised and Anvari might prove to be exactly what they needed to hold those youngsters together.

 

“More than twelve thousand.” Haleth’s voice was forcibly calm, strained to sound not fearful. “Four times as many as we are.” The young warrior stood only a step away from Boromir. He and Raedan had to be the two half-banner leaders, and Boromir had left them little time to even think about any doubts they might have.

 

“That means there are four Uruk-hai out there for each of you to kill,” Boromir told him, speaking loud enough that the people on the battlement could hear him. “Four, that is the only number you need to think about. Four for each of you. You can do that.”

 

Kíli tilted his head, looking up at him. “Veterans take eight,” he said with a slight smile.

 

Only now Boromir realized that he had been paraphrasing a speech of Dwalin, and one the famous war master had probably held more than once in his life.

 

A roar rose in the ravine, the Uruk-hai leader – an especially huge and muscled specimen of his kind – raised his blade high into the air and then pointed it towards the fortress. The black mass of the host began moving, like the sluggish oil on a pond at first, then faster and faster as the Uruks began their storm.

 

“Archers!” Boromir heard the command, had expected it come, as the archers behind the wall began to send waves of arrows against the attackers. Uruks stumbled and fell, others rushing on. Their first rank was eliminated, but it was only a drop in an ocean of foes.

 

The first hooks were flying upwards and the first ladders hit the Deepening Wall. Boromir saw Raedan kick loose one of the ladders, toppling it before the Uruks on it could climb up. Some other ropes ended similarly, but before long he saw the first of the attackers jump onto the battlements. Moving forward he greeted the first one with a blade in the belly, sending him tumbling down back into the ravine. More came as the fighting on the wall began, trying to hold the ladder positions for their comrades to follow, but often pushed back again.

 

The fighting soon became a whirlwind of blood, of stabs and slashes, kicks against foes to topple them back down and steel grating hard on blade and armor, black corpses falling, their blood smearing the walls, diluted by the rain until it was nothing but a slippery, gory grounds beneath their feet. Coming around to stab yet another attacker, Boromir saw that the utter end of the wall was in trouble. “Haleth, take ten of ours and support Farthaine; he is getting overrun!” he shouted towards his young comrade, who heard the order and acted swiftly to bolster the flailing position.

 

It left Boromir with fewer fighters at the core of their wall section, but they’d have to cover that. Pushing harder, he tackled the four Uruk-hai holding the point where two ladders had found hold on the wall. More were pouring up, buthe did not count the number. The fighting narrowed down to a storm of attacks and parries, of hits denting his armor and of bodies tumbling down to the gory heaps below.

 

He saw Kíli, who had tackled that formation from the other side, dispatching two Uruks that had gotten into his flank, before kicking one of the ladders loose again. It fell, smashing down on the teeming mass of Orcs below. A short glance across the long wall told him it was the same all along the Deepening Wall. The Uruk-hai were storming and the defenders pushing them back. A bulk of them was tackling the gate of the Deepening Wall itself, but there they encountered the toughest defenders.

 

A shriek in his back warned him. He came around, the blade up already to behead yet another Uruk-hai who had sprung on the wall, followed by more. A loud thunder rolled through the ravine, louder than before and then it came – like one bundle of pure white light falling from the merciless clouds the lightning struck. The pale light touchedthe wall on the west side of the deep, where the Deepening brook was guided under the fortifications, and for one moment the skies were bright as day, before the wall was ripped apart by the sheer force, the ground shaking with the anger of the elements.

 

The west wall had been breached.

 

TRB

 

The light had been so bright that it left colorful specks dancing before Elrohir’s eyes. He had to duck to evade a stone ripped from the shaking wall and crashing down on the battlements. With the wall breached, defending the Deepening Wall had become all but impossible. “We need to block that breach – for the others to fall back,” Háma shouted. The broad-shouldered Rohirrim warrior was already racing towards the gap. Elrohir couldn’t agree more. The Hornburg walls were still a defensible position, even with the outer ramparts lost, but they needed to give their comrades time to fall back.

 

When they reached the gap, the first Uruk-hai were already pouring through. With his sword in hand Elrohir attacked those furthest into the open grounds that stretched behind the Deepening Wall and before the fortifications of the Hornburg itself. More warriors came from the broken wall, helping to bottle up the Uruk-hai in the breach, not allowing them to advance swiftly on the Hornburg walls. Soon the corpses of the fallen were piling up behind the breach, gory piles of friend and foe, lying in the way of the Uruk-hai advance.

 

Elrohir knew that they could not hold on forever; they were losing too many defenders of the breach, but behind them he knew the troops were falling back to the Hornburg. He beheaded another Uruk-hai, stabbed the next, but in the moment he yanked the blade free, a curved blade hit his armor. He felt the pain run through his bones, but he ignored it, like he ignored the other wounds he had received during the fighting.

 

He could not say how long the bloody foray at the breach lasted, how many Uruk-hai he had killed, for it did not matter. For each one he sent down in blood, two more stormed into the breach, like a flood that could not be held by any wall, or any barrier for long. Their formation finally broke on the left side of the breach. The Uruk-hai forced their way past the defenders, cutting down what still stood in their way. Helping a wounded Rohirrim back to his feet, Elrohir barked the order to retreat – they could not get to the Hornburg anymore, because the Orcs were flooding between them and the walls of the fortress itself, but they gave little attention to the far side of fortifications where the Deepening Wall connected with the hidden entrance of deep. It was not much more but a narrow passage between the wall and the rocks, leading to something Elrohir would guess was a cave or cavern of sorts.

 

On the retreat there he picked up another stumbling warrior, supporting him until they reached the narrow entrance. The Uruk-hai paid them little heed at the moment; their greed was focused on the Hornburg too much to pay any attention to those pushed back into the deep. Behind the narrow passage, Elrohir helped the wounded Rohirrim he had been guiding to sit down. Only now he recognized Háma, whose face was marred with blood. He was bleeding from several wounds and barely able to stand on his own. One swift look around told Elrohir that there was no true structure to those who had made it into the deep.

 

“Faleine, get some of those archers and set up guard at the entrance,” he called out to one of the archers he had been fighting with earlier in the day. “Call out for support the moment they approach again.”

 

 “They’ll soon find out where we went.” Háma’s voice was constrained. He coughed, his body shaking hard. He looked up to Elrohir. “The King… what happened to him?”

 

Elrohir squatted down beside the wounded man. The injuries were serious, but not lethal. He quickly tore his cloak into stripes to bandage the worst wounds and stem the bleeding. “Last that I saw him he was with Aragorn. He should have made it to the Hornburg in time.” Around them many of them men were using the short break they had to take care of injured comrades, while a group kept watch over the narrow gap that was the entrance to the deep.

 

“Háma,” Elrohir said softly. “Where does this passage lead? To the caves under the Hornburg?” He needed to know if they were to plan their next steps. The break they had gained would not be a long one.

 

“I wish it would.” Háma shook his head, trying to sit up straight. He was still pale, but the short rest helped him at least a little. “No, Elrohir, this passage leads further into the deeps and to the old caves – the place where Helm Hammerhand hid his people during the long winter. There is only one other way out – a steep shaft that leads up on the mountain path. We have no way to help the fighters in the Hornburg…”

 

Elrohir had guessed as much. It made sense; the torn structure of the deep suggested there were several other dead ends, other thanthe one that was blocked by the Hornburg. “Then we use the time the Uruk-hai are not caring about us to get as many wounded fighters off the field as we can,” he said. “Stay here, we will need your strength once they come at us again.”

 

“What use will it be?” Háma asked, his voice rough. “Once the Hornburg falls, they will come for us and slaughter all those we might yet get off the field.”

 

“We capitulate after we are dead,” Elrohir said firmly, getting back to his feet. The forays to help more stragglers to reach the deep  would also tell him what he needed to know about the situation of the Hornburg. Maybe they could flank the Uruk-hai, or draw some of their numbers off. He’d have to find out.

 

TRB

 

The walls of the Hornburg were running red with blood. The stairs that led from the Deep up to the very rock of the Hornburg, to the mighty gates were a field of corpses. Uruk-hai and Men were both lying still were they had fallen, dark blots on the bloody stairs. Aragorn felt Anduril’s anger reverberating under his very hands as he fought at the bottom of the stairs, cutting through the Uruk-hai rushing up and towards them.  Theodred and Falcwine stood with him, keeping the path open for the last stragglers retreating back to the Hornburg.

 

Theodred stumbled under a brutal hit and Falcwine swiftly intercepted the next attack, pushing the Uruk-hai back. “All those who’ll make it are here,” he snapped towards Aragorn. “We need to retreat.” They had held the stairs for others to make it back to the Rock, as the main Hornburg was called. Many had rushed past them to whatever safety the steep stone might offer.

 

“No.” Theodred had gotten back to his feet, both hands at his blade. Even though he was tired and exhausted he fought on. “The East Wall is still out there – so are Háma and the men from the breach.”

 

“They won’t come. Háma fell back to the Deep and the East Wall is cut off from us already.” Falcwine’s words came in short bouts between hits and parries.

 

The words sent a cold shiver down Aragorn’s spine. The East Wall – he had feared they’d lose that wall first, but it had stood strong throughout the nightly battle. Boromir, Kíli, Anvari… they all were trapped out there with the Uruk-hai closing in from all sides, along with only whatever might be left of their untrained young troops. He knew he could not waste time worrying for them – not with their own situation here critical enough. He’d have to trust them to find their own way out of this.

 

More Uruk-hai came rushing towards the stairs. There was little doubt that no more stragglers would make it back to them. “Theodred – get back there.” His words came out harsh, sharply, but he heard them. Together they retreated up the stairs towards the rear gate, and a troop swiftly headed out to support them.

 

The Uruk-hai stopped, their ranks parting for smaller figures with bent bows – Dunlendings! A swathing of arrows was fired up at them. Aragorn ducked, feeling two arrows knocking rings loose in his chainmail. Theodred stumbled; two arrows had pierced his leg and side. Before Aragorn could react, two fighters from the troop that had come from the gate sprinted forward to assist him. He recognized Éowyn and one of her girls. Éowyn covered them, while her comrade assisted Theodred to reach the gate.

 

More arrows came, the Dunlendings firing them in rapid succession. Aragorn was the last to retreat through the gate. With a loud crash the stone closed behind him.

 

“Get him to the healers, quickly,” he heard Éowyn’s firm voice say. “And clear the door space, bring the wounded into the caves. Brithonin, get some more men to barricade the sides of the gauntlet. Who is in charge of the archers?”

 

“Wyn is dead and so is Eothaine,” a younger warrior reported. “I took over when Elrohir was separated from us. But why – we have hardly use of archers in here?”

 

Éowyn took off her helmet, a gesture less for her comfort, but for ease of conversation. “Ravin, is it?” she asked. When she saw his confirming nod, she pointed to the wide hall stretching behind the gate. “Look at his hall, Ravin. The men are already walling it off with whatever we have, to give us some cover once they breach the gate. And they _will_ breach it. Once they do, this hall will be our killing ground. Have every archer you have get fresh arrows from the armory and climb whatever ledges they can find above the hall. The others will be with us behind the barricades. We will bottle them up in this gauntlet for as long as we can.”

 

“How bad is Theodred?” Aragorn asked softly as he joined her. Éowyn too was injured, favoring her left leg when she walked, but she did not show any weakness in front of the men.

 

“If they can get that arrow out of him before it grazes his lung and if he survives without infection, he will make it,” Éowyn told him. “But he is out of the fight for the moment.”

 

Aragorn looked around. The Rohirrim were swift in using broken beams, heavy stones and whatever other materials they had to barricade a zone around the hall, creating a true gauntlet. “It is a good plan,” he said to Éowyn. “But it is only one to buy time.”

 

The blond woman turned to him, her eyes shining in a fierce light. “Theodred sent Éomer and Ingvar to the Westfold and Aldburg before we left Edoras, and while many think they are lost to us, I still believe they are on their way here with all the troops they could find, and we need to hold out until they can reach us.”

 

There was wisdom in her words, Aragorn had to admit. He silently hoped that Gandalf, wherever he had gone, might also find hope for them. Until then, all they could do was fight.

 

TRB

 

Boromir saw the gates of the Hornburg close long before they could reach them. Their retreat had been hampered by the Uruk-hai troops overcoming the gate of the Deepening Wall, cutting them off from the stairs towards the Hornburg. Between the fallen Deepening Wall and the Hornburg lay nothing but a field full of Orcs and in their backs was nothing else. The East Wall was a dead end, with no way out. His eyes found the watchtower at the very end of the East Wall. The Uruks had yet to pay any attention to it. They were too greedy in their rush to get to the Hornburg itself. “Fall back to the tower!” He knew the order confused their banner, but they followed nevertheless. Anvari and his group were the first to turn against the Uruk-hai on that segment on the wall, carving a path towards the tower.

 

It was a gory path; they had to force their way past the storming Uruk-hai. Under their feet already piled the bodies of the battle, and more were rushing towards them. Side by side Boromir and Kíli were the blades that carved the first gap into their ranks, opening a path for the others to follow. When they reached the entrance of the crumbling tower, Boromir and Kíli turned against the Uruk-hai, allowing their comrades to get inside and man the old watchtower. They were the last to retreat inside. With the narrow entrance to the Tower itself, the Uruk-hai had a much harder time to reach them and many rushed by, to join their comrades storming the Hornburg.

 

His breath still raggedfrom the hard fighting, Boromir looked around, taking stock of their situation. More than one banner of their fighters was still standing, the wounded had been brought into the farthest corners of the tower and there was no gap, be it door or window that was not manned by a fighter group. He felt a surge of pride at these young fighters. They might be thrown into the worst battle of their lives, but they did well – they kept their heads and never lost sight of their comrades. They’d make a superior force once this was all over.

 

“More are coming.” Kíli had peered out of one of the archer’s shards. “The dawn does nothing to slow them down.”

 

“They had to overcome that particular weakness sooner or later,” Boromir replied grimly, taking his place with Kíli at the gate again. They’d hold them off, make them waste time on a secondary target, so the Hornburg could scramble a counterattack. He hoped it would come soon.

 

The fighting began anew, with Uruks storming against the gate of the Tower, some scaling the walls to reach the wider windows, but each of them was manned, and soon screeching Uruk-hai fell from above, while Boromir and Kíli fought in the narrow frame of the gate. In the tight space it would have been hard for two fighters to stand and defend, but with them it worked like they were one man. Each strike, each attack falling in perfect coordination, Kíli toppled an opponent, and Boromir killed him. Another got into Boromir’s flank, but Kíli got him before his strike could land. It was a rush of blood, of rage and of a fierce energy that carried them through the first wave and the next and the one after. By the time the sun was up, the Uruk-hai were stumbling over their own corpses when they approached the watchtower.

 

The grey spring clouds parted and the rain finally ceased. The rays of the sunlight did nothing to stop the Orcs, but then they suddenly stilled. From behind them, from the very entrance of the deep a horn rang out – not the deep horns of Rohan, nor the loud horns of the Orcs, but one silvery sound echoing from the walls of the deep, ringing out like a clarion calling for the attack. “Elves!” Kíli panted, a fierce grin shining on his face.

 

Pushing forward Boromir gained a foothold outside the tower’s entrance, where he could see the field beyond the wall. He hardly believed his eyes – another army was out there. Some were Menfolk – Rohirrim, maybe the troops from Westfold and Aldburg they had been waiting for – but an even greater number were elves, their advance almost noiseless across the Deep. Their ranks parted; one attack group pointed at the breach, the other at the broken gate of the Deepening Wall. They were attacking the Uruk-hai’s back!

 

“Haleth, bring all fighters down to the wall!” Boromir called out. They could support the new storm best by pushing the Orcs as hard as possible. “It is time to clear the Eastern Wall!”

 

The sudden turn from the defensive to the offensive again, was asking all that was left in their banner, but all of them, even the injured followed into the storm as they pushed out onto the wall. The Uruk-hai suddenly found themselves trapped between the assault on the Deepening Wall and the attack from above – for the gates of the Hornburg opened and the defenders brought their own attack down the gory stairs. Their foray was so powerful that they pushed the Uruk-hai back towards the outer walls of the Hornburg. And from the western side, from the Deep itself, all those who had retreated there joined the fray again. The Uruk-hai were trapped.

 

It was the hardest part of the battle, though Boromir was hardly surprised about that – trapped and encircled the Uruk-hai fought with the fervor and anger of caged animals, and while some of the Dunlendings tried to flee, most of them stood and fought as well, driven by their hate against the Rohirrim.

 

But the troops swarming over the Deepening Wall were fresh and they were strong fighters. The fighters from the Westfold fought with the grim hate of people having already lost too much to the Enemy, and the Elves cut through the ranks of the Uruk-hai with a speed and force that left Boromir with little doubts how the battles of the Last Alliance must have been. He did not waste time on wondering, but pushed forward. The tide was finally turning.

 

TRB

 

The sun stood high above the Hornburg when it was over. Under the light of the noonday sun the bloody field between the walls was revealed to its fullest, with the piles of corpses darkening the ground, where it was not deeply stained with the black blood of the Uruk-hai. Boromir was relieved to see Aragorn alive. He had led the foray from the Hornburg, pushing the Orcs back towards the elven advance, and while he was slightly limping, he had sustained no serious injuries.

 

“Boromir!” Aragorn’s mien broke into an equally relieved smile. “It is good to see you alive. I feared for you when the East Wall was cut off.”

 

“We held the tower until help arrived,” Boromir said, his eyes surveying the gathering troops. He could see Éomer with the men of Westfold, but his gaze swiftly went back to where the elven fighters were gathering. “Though I am wondering who came to our aid.”

 

Aragorn’s eyes pointed to their left and Boromir saw Kíli and Anvari approaching two of the elves. He had noticed the red-headed elven warrior before… He had also seen him in battle, though that had been in another lifetime. “The Lord of the Dragon Forge,” Boromir said softly, a few memories of another battle vividly waking within him.

 

“There is an old saying amongst my people in the North,” Aragorn said softly. “That old enmities and old friendships prove themselves strongest in the darkest of hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note
> 
> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* Don’t forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!!


	26. The road into war

It was the strangest of armies that the Hornburg might ever have seen on her ancient grounds, Theodred though when he saw the camp stretching through the Deep in the dusk of the falling night. Leaning against the battlement he could hide that he had troubles standing on his own two feet. The healers had cut the arrow from him and he hoped that the wound would heal cleanly, but this was not a time to be weak.

 

“I let Éomer know to meet you here.” Éowyn’s voice came from behind, as she walked up the stairs to the battlement. She still wore the chainmail armor and leather brigandine she had worn during the battle, only now her long hair was loose and not tied back like it had been during the fighting.

 

Theodred smiled at seeing her. She had fought like a wild mountain lion in the battle and had certainly done better than he had. “He has to settle his own troops and to coordinate with the elven army. Though they seem well known to Aragorn’s friends as well, he may need time.”

 

Shaking her head, Éowyn joined him up on the wall. “He can have Ingvar take care of that, at least for a few hours,” she said firmly. “The camp is set well enough for the night and the healers are taking care of all the wounded.”

 

“How are your girls faring?” Theodred asked her, wondering how she was feeling about her fighters. He wished he could say it was over, that those girls would go home as heroes who helped to save Rohan, only they wouldn’t… because the battle was over and the war was beginning.

 

“We lost one of four to death or injury,” Éowyn said, her voice shaking a little when she mentioned the death toll, but it steadied at once again as she went on. “I have Brithonin take account of all still capable of fighting, to draft up a decent structure from that. We have more archers than sword fighters to make a decent banner, but it’ll have to do.” Her eyes went down to the camp. “They are holding up as well as can be expected, some who grew up in warrior households like Brithonin better than others.”

 

“They draw a lot of strength from your example.” Theodred knew that Éowyn was the backbone of her troop – the example the girls aspired to be like. He could it even see in her ‘right hand’ Brithonin, and even more in some of the others he had seen.

 

“I wish it was true.” Éowyn turned to him, their eyes meeting. “You should see the other banner we sent the youngsters too. They had some harsh losses as well, when they were cut off on the East wall, but… they are taking it much stronger, Theodred. They did bury their fallen before the sun set. Boromir did wonders with those boys. He gave them a strength, a confidence… If I can do half as well, I will call it an achievement.”

 

“He has been leading men into battle since he was as young as some of those boys,” Theodred said. “And he has the easier task – the boys always knew they’d be warriors one day. Your girls certainly have to adjust to the idea.”

 

Their conversation came to a halt when they saw Éomer and a smaller figure walk into the yard behind the wall. Éomer pointed towards the eastern side of the fortifications. “They are camped behind the eastern side of the Deepening Wall. You should find him there,” Theodred heard him say, before he parted with his companion and walked up the stairs to the wall. He walked briskly, belying any exhaustion or injury.

 

Theodred greeted Éomer with a hearty clap of the shoulders. “I am glad to see you alive, brother. I feared for your life when we heard the news from the Westfold.”

 

“And I feared we might be too late to break the Siege, even with the Elven tricks in marching…” His voice sank to a hush when he said that.

 

“You must tell us how this wonder came to pass, Éomer,” Theodred said. “I have had very little conversation with the Elven leaders so far, and I am surprised an Elven army should even come to our aid.”

 

“They were not here for us,” Éomer replied. “They are on their way South, to Gondor, to fight the Shadow.” A smile lit up his features. “Would you believe me that it is all the fault of a dwarf? I had found Erkenbrand and his men, for the Uruk-hai had left them alone to turn towards Helm’s Deep, but we would have had three days of marching to get to you, and there were Orc groups on the plains here and there. I rode ahead to meet with Ingvar and the Aldburg men when I walked into a skirmish with several Orcs, when I found timely and unexpected assistance in a dwarven warrior.”

 

“The one you walked with down in the yard?” Éowyn asked, pointing her hand towards where her brother had entered the fortress. “What was he doing here?”

 

“His name is Fionn, and he was scouting the path towards the Mountains for the Elven army. Do not ask me why he is serving an Elven Lord, but when he heard my story, he guided me back to their leaders. Once we were in agreement, we marched together towards the Deep.” Éomer braced his arms against his chest. “It was the strangest march I ever saw, the path winding through the mists, the land itself parting for our passage, travelling through the dark with only the moon for guidance …” His voice trailed off for a moment. “But when dawn came we were at the Deep. I do not regret it, but I certainly do not wish to ever experience such a march again.”

 

Elven magic, how many stories did the old songs tell of such things, Theodred wondered. Eorl the Young on his famous ride South had skirted the borders of the infamous Golden Woods themselves and many a tale had been told about that adventure afterwards. Theodred was not sure whether he was glad that he had not been there or if he was a little envious. “Your arrival saved us all. We could not have held out much longer,” he said.

 

“I wish it was all the tidings I had,” Éomer said. “On his way to Aldburg Ingvar found a dead Gondorian messenger by the roadside – shot by Orcs. He was carrying this.” He carefully took an item wrapped in leather and handed it to Theodred.

 

“The Red Arrow!” Theodred felt his head spin, leaning more firmly against the battlements. He had expected this, known the call would come, but now that it was real, it was an invisible weight settling on his shoulders. “So Gondor is calling for our aid. We will need to muster all of Rohan.” They had spoken of this before, agreed it would be necessary, and he had expected Boromir to make this demand, but if Denethor of Gondor had sent a messenger with the Red Arrow, Gondor’s situation must be more dire than they knew.

 

TRB

 

“The Red Arrow?” Boromir looked at Aragorn incredulously. A new dawn was rising beyond the Deep and they were standing in the shadow of Hornburg’s mighty rock.

 

“Aye, Theodred spoke of it to me,” Aragorn replied. It was the first time since the battle that they had found time to talk. “They will muster and march towards Gondor. You seem surprised the Arrow was sent?”

 

“Things must be worse than I imagined, Aragorn,” Boromir replied grimly. “My father would not have used it lightly. If in need of assistance, he would have sent word and Rohan would have responded… but sending the Arrow means that he has to call on all Alliances with whatever strength remains in them.”

 

“Had the messenger not been killed, the Red Arrow might have reached King Theoden before he was murdered,” Aragorn said thoughtfully. “Could it be that the Riverline is under such attacks that Gondor needs reinforcements to hold it any longer?”

 

“No.” Boromir shook his head. He did not need to guess long, he knew his father’s mind. “Rohirrim, for all their courage, are not much help in fighting along the river; they are no foot warriors. Riders are only an advantage on the plains beyond the rampart, which means my father is foreseeing we will be losing the river before long and fight on the fields before Minas Tirith herself.”

 

Aragorn studied Boromir’s face. It was never easy to read the Captain of Gondor – he was very adept at hiding his thoughts, at presenting a strong mask – but sometimes Aragorn could see glimpses of what lay beneath, the worries, the exhaustion, the traces a long war had wrought on Boromir. How he found the strength to go on like this was nothing short of amazing. And when had they come to discuss war like this; Aragorn asking questions and Boromir giving his assessment? When had they begun to silently accept what they had agreed only to discuss when the war was over? “Even if Rohan begins the muster immediately, they need to send word to all their provinces, the troops have to arrive and be mustered before they can march… It will take them twelve days if not more,” he said after a while. “And I fear for Minas Tirith. If they lose the riverline, the Siege will begin soon.”

 

“The city is prepared for that,” Boromir said confidently. “We long knew it would come to that, and they will not find easy pickings there. Thoroniâr will have the city whipped into a battle shape, and Faramir will come up with more Ranger ways to create chaos for the enemy Orcs than you can imagine.”

 

Again Aragorn saw the mask. Boromir was not a man to admit doubts, or speak of worries easily. He had shared some of his worries in the past, but now that the war drew close he locked them away. And maybe he had to. Maybe it was the reason why he was such an efficient commander, because he did not allow his doubts to get in his way. “The river may not yet be lost,” he said. “And what if the Enemy does not send Orcs against Minas Tirith, but his Easterling legions?”

 

“Then the time has come,” Boromir’s voice echoed a strange tone, “for the great battle they have been waiting for since they fled from Dagorlad. The one war that will put their strength to test – the proof if their day is truly dawning, or if the old world still can stem the tide from the East.” He pushed away from the Rock where he had been standing. “You already said in Amon Hen, that you’d prefer I returned to Minas Tirith swiftly. It is a three days ride from here, if one takes the Mountain passage.”

 

Aragorn stifled a smile. In the moment Boromir had made his decision, he reminded him vividly of the man who had told him of the strength of Men in Rivendell. “It is early in the year to consider the Mountain passage.” The path of the signal fires was well known to Aragorn; it hardly deserved the name for it was more of a mule track running in the heights of the White Mountains. A rider might pass it with some effort, but it was useless for any larger group, let alone an army. “But it would bring you home swifter than any other road.” His eyes strayed to the peaks they could see above the Deep. “My heart warns me to delay – our people will need you to hold out. The Enemy is free of doubt now that Saruman has fallen.”

 

“Speaking of Saruman, have you had any word of Mithrandir since he left to confront him a second time?” Boromir asked. They were already walking through the early morning hustle of the fortress towards the stairs of the Hornburg.

 

“No, there was no word, nor message. It worries me deeply,” Aragorn admitted. “But then, he often comes when least expected, and he has yet to come too late, which gives me hope.”

 

“We both could go.” Boromir’s words were slow when he spoke again. He had stopped at the feet of the stairs, eyes locking with Aragorn. “You’d bring new hope to our people, hope they will need to hold out under the Siege that will come.”

 

“Don’t think I have not considered it.” Aragorn knew that saying no here would again call into question his dedication to the nation that should be his by birth, but that was often foreign to him. “But there is one other path I have to take – one that might help us to tip the scales of the coming battle.” He honestly expected temper on Boromir’s side. The warrior often reminded Aragorn of Ecthelion, who certainly had possessed a peppery disposition.

 

But Boromir acknowledged his words with a curt nod. “If there is any place left that can bring us aid…” He exhaled slowly. “I’d be lying if I said we don’t need it. I will do what I can to hold the city as long as it takes for you to get there.”

 

It was a promise if Aragorn had ever heard one, not the promise of a warrior to a king, but the promise of a friend and he’d not have it any other way. “You hold the city until the moon has waned from the skies again and I will bring the army to break the Siege.” He had felt dark about the road to Dimholt leading into the Dwimorberg, but now he was determined to find it and bring back the Army that could not be defeated.

 

The golden rays of the sun touched the tips of the battlements as Boromir was preparing the horse for the long ride. Theodred luckily had understood at once. The noise of hooves made Boromir turn around. Behind him Kíli led another horse across the yard. “You are not thinking of going alone, are you?” There was warmth in Kíli’s voice, though it also echoed slight bemusement. He had of course sensed that Boromir was leaving without needing to be told.

 

Boromir smiled. They rarely needed words to know what the other was doing. “I had assumed you’d ride with Rú and his people. His coordinating with the Rohirrim is massively on Fionn as it is, and he might well need help with that.” It would have been the logical choice, as the Rohirrim would never feel truly at ease with an elven army right beside them. Still, knowing that Kíli would choose their friendship above such logic… it was absolutely Kíli. He should have known.

 

“Anvari will go with them,” Kíli replied, bringing the horse to stand beside Boromir’s. Their gaze met and Boromir could see a fierce, if grim sparkle in Kíli’s black eyes. “I am coming with you.”

 

A cold gust of wind fell from the flank of the Mountain, sweeping through the grass of the valley. Boromir’s eyes went east, to the cold skies above the Mountains. It was beginning… somewhere deep down he knew and he wondered where Faramir might be in this hour. “I am glad you are with me, Kíli,” he said.

 

They both mounted their horses and guided them out of the fortress. The narrow path that led out of the valley was overgrown with grass but soon made way for a darker passage mostly marked by stones, winding eastward along the grey peaks.

 

TRB

 

Dwalin spat out a mouthful of water when he pulled himself out of the narrow tunnel in Osgiliath. He hated swimming and he hated diving through old sewers even more. If dwarves had been meant to swim, they’d have fins, but tonight he did not complain all that much. Not with the loud screams from the other side of the river and the flames licking angrily up to the skies all along the eastern shore. Looking around he spotted the familiar figure of Faramir, who had emerged from a similar tunnel further south. The Ranger pulled down the scarf that had hidden his face, a grim smile sparkling in his eyes. “You made quite the racket in the middle of their camp,” he observed, casting a glance to the other shore, where another fresh flame erupted from a building, brightening the darkness.

 

“I told you their commander would not resist such a challenge,” Dwalin grinned back. He liked the Ranger Captain; Faramir was a cunning leader with a mind for complex plans and he had the courage to put those plans into motion himself. “They never could resist such a bait… For all their Shadow worship, it would go against their honor to not take a challenge such as this. Had he not fought me himself, he’d have appeared a coward in front of his men and that’s the second worst dishonor in their eyes and the second only by a hair.”

 

“You killed him?” Faramir asked, already taking stock if all of their group had made it back across the river.

 

“Aye, laddie. Leaving him alive would have been the greatest dishonor as a son of the Empire can suffer – being so weak and harmless that the enemy will leave him alive. He fought well. I’d not dishonor him like that.” Dwalin leaned on Stormcaller’s handle, looking at Faramir. “Is there a problem with that?”

 

The Ranger shook his head, eyes going back across the river where the flames were spreading. “No, though I still find it strange to fight beside the… dwarrow who became famous for the fires of Dun Karga. You know them well and it shows in your tactics.”

 

Dwalin shrugged. “I never expected to go down in their history, and Dun Karga…” He looked down, averting his gaze. He’d never forget that day; the night full of screams, the fire… the madness. Dwalin had seen cruel things in his time as a mercenary, but Dun Karga had been the worst, a nightmare he had never forgotten. Sometimes he had hated himself for having been part of the slaughter.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulders. When he looked up he found Faramir’s gaze calm and compassionate. “We all have our nightmares, Dwalin,” the Ranger said in a hush. “And I should have said that I am glad you are with us, not with them anymore.”

 

“My King would never allow that,” Dwalin replied, pushing aside the memories. An icy wind streaked past them, colder than the spring winds that had been blowing for days, and it came straight from the East. Looking up to the skies Dwalin saw a shadow, like a huge cloud blotting out the stars. The cold rode on its edges. A shriek rose in the darkness – a cold, high pitched voice screaming a command Dwalin could not understand, but he did not need to know the words to understand the meaning. A new attack was coming, and this time a Nazgul led them.

 

TRB

 

Cér-Tyramere, one time capital of Dorwinion and still provincial capital of the Empire, was a city that never slept, at least that was Shakurán’s impression of the rich port city. Situated at the shores of the Sea of Rhûn, the small inland sea as the Easterlings called it, it was a major center for trade throughout the East. Now it also was a war-camp, major gathering point for the forces rallied throughout the Empire. The Army Eternal was rising and more and more troops were streaming here from all over the Empire. “I am surprised you were sent for them that early,” Varik, the old General of the district, told him. “Is Minas Morgul that short of Drakhár riders to send one of their own to fetch them early?”

 

He certainly disliked his routine being interrupted, but he did not dare argue with a messenger of the Witch King all too loudly. Shakurán would not tell him he had volunteered for playing the errand boy for reasons of his own. “The riverline is holding up better than expected and we will need massive Drakhár support for the coming sieges,” he replied. “I do not know when you were stationed west the last time, Varik… Gondor has put much effort into expanding their fortifications, too much for us to simply plan on storming them. We were expecting a full complement of trained Drakhár riders a full two months ago already, and another by the end of this one.”

 

Varik angrily raised his hands, opening them in a gesture of futility. “The breeding pens have a hard time to deliver as many grown Drakhár as are called for. The Imperial messengers too demand more and more of them, not to speak of other parts of the Army Eternal. And even if I have enough Drakhár, it is hard getting enough riders trained up. I have a lot of young trainees, but they are hardly out of full training down in Ard-Naztur.”

 

Shakurán knew that fact quite well, since one of his sons was with that unit. Had training Drakhár riders not been so neglected throughout the last decade, the problem would not exist. “Nevertheless, have them ready to leave at first watch tomorrow,” he said. “All you have, no matter where you get them. I shall _try_ to explain your tarrying to the Witch King.”

 

The words were like a whip, and he could see Varik flinch. No one wanted to be reported to the Witch King, least of all in a negative fashion. “I… I shall see to it at once,” he said, rising from his seat. “Do you have quarters for the night?”

 

He was relieved he was gaining the night and part of the day to get his Drakhár riders ready. Shakurán rose too. “It has already been seen to,” he replied. “I shall meet the troops by first watch.”

 

Outside the fortress Shakurán pulled the hood of his cloak up. With the black Morgul Armor and the cloak he looked like many an Easterling soldier serving in the Shadowed Lands. He followed the road down from the citadel and then up one of the smaller hills above the city. When he had come here for the first time many years ago he had thought this province lush, soft and more than a bit spoiled. His wife had cured him of this notion, along with several other notions about her people. He left the bustling streets to climb a winding stair between a few gardens, where soon the wild jasmine would flower, approaching the house from the backside.

 

He left the bustling streets to climb a winding stair between a few gardens, where soon the wild jasmine would flower. He never knew how Ryadil sensed he was close, but she never failed to do so, meeting him in the gardens. Their greeting was a short embrace, a holding onto each other before letting go again. “I had not expected you to come here,” she said, leading him towards the house. She was a small, fragile looking woman, only just reaching to his shoulder, with the light hair and tanned skin of Dorwinion’s people, at home by the inland sea.

 

“Someone had to pick up the new riders. I volunteered,” he replied with a warm smile. “It was as good an excuse as any.” They had often not seen each other for years, when his tasks had taken him far away, or when he had been unable to leave Minas Morgul for longer than a few hours. It was part of his life, as it was for all Imperial warriors.

 

“How long can you stay?” Ryadil asked as they sat down in the shadow of the House, well out of sight from the road and out of earshot of anyone, the servants included.

 

“Not long. I have to leave by first light.” Shakurán wished he could say more, but like always Ryadil left him tongue-tied, making it harder to speak of what he felt than ever.

 

“So the war is truly beginning.” Ryadil was not much of a patriot. To her the Easterling Empire was still the land that had annexed her people a generation ago, and she certainly had more than once felt the dislike of those who disparaged her for having married an Easterling soldier. “Will I see you again?”

 

How she knew him… She could tell what he was thinking, even when he hardly dared to speak of it. “Most likely not,” Shakurán said, forcing his voice to calm. “If the plan is not changed… this is the last time.” The Soul Sacrifice awaited him. He did not fear giving his soul to the void, he did not fear dying, but he disliked the means, he disliked using his death to accomplish a dishonorable slaughter. He could see the expression in her eyes and quickly took her hands, speaking on. “If I do this right, it should be assured that you and our daughter are safe,” he said softly. “I have seen to that. If we win this war, you should have nothing to fear, and our daughter should be safe.”

 

Ryadil leaned against him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “If we win…” she said in a whisper. “That’s a new one. You used to say: _when_ we win the war. So, you have doubts now?”

 

“Do you want a spiritual answer or a historical one?” Shakurán asked her. It was an old question between them.

 

She looked up and made a face. “I hate your spiritual answers, you know that,” she said, “But what could be your historical answer?”

 

“That we have yet to prove we can beat Numenór,” Shakurán replied. “We have certainly tried in the past. We often had more men, more weapons, the better position… and still, we usually ended up losing the war. Like it or not, we have to yet prove that we can be stronger than them.”

 

In spite of it all, Ryadil chuckled. “You admire them and you believe in their legend,” she chastised him gently. “You even like them. And I still say they can be bribed as easily as the next Imperial clerk.”

 

“This won’t be a matter of bribery.” Shakurán wished they could go on joking about it, but time was short. “Ryadil, if we lose this war, if word reaches you of defeat…” He hated to think like that, but he had to. “Then I want you to not wait for word of me, or word of anything else, nor to wait for whatever plan of defense the Empire will cook up. You go to my rooms and take the black stone box in my chest. It holds some valuables and a letter. Get this and whatever things you can carry, take our daughter and get out of here before the tides of war reach this city.”

 

“If the tides of war reach this city, what place is there left to run to?” Ryadil asked softly. “Sometimes a victor can be bribed or twisted around a little, but there won’t be much room to flee anywhere.”

 

“You go where the letter directs you to go,” Shakurán said. “Burn the letter in case we win, use it in case we lose. It is as much as I can do for you and our daughter.”

 

“Because you will be dead in both cases.” Ryadil wrapped her arms around him. “I know you don’t want to hear it… but I would prefer to have a living husband. Honor or no honor, reputation or none – I’d rather have you back alive.” They both knew it was not possible, they both knew it was a dream, but they would not spend their last hours together debating it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note
> 
> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* Don’t forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!!
> 
> In other news my next three weeks will be very stressful and I am not sure how much writing I will get done in between a lot of work. I will try for sure, but can’t promise how much it will be. I am sorry about it, because I am eager to continue the story, but it can’t be helped.


	27. Black wings unfurled

Faramir saw the soldier stumble in exhaustion before the man fell to the ground, his shoulder pieced by a black arrow. His own horse shrieked in panic as he heard the swirl of powerful wings high up in the air. As he turned his head he saw several winged creatures dive from the clouds, towards his retreating troops. After a brutal four day battle Osgiliath had been lost to the enemy advance and Faramir had sent most of the remaining defenders back to Minas Tirith, leading the rear guard himself. But with the winged Nazgûl and the Drakhár riders in hard pursuit he was losing more and more fighters to their attacks. The road from Osgiliath to Minas Tirith had become their trap; the constant fighting to chase off the Drakhár and the Wraith on Wings was taking a heavy toll on all of them. And behind them loomed a shadow that seemed to stretch into their hearts, like it was not just blotting out the sun, but taking all the light and hope of the world with it.

 

“Close ranks! Don’t let them grab you!” The deep barking voice of Dwalin showed no trace of fear or horror. The dwarven warmaster stood his ground with the same fierce will that he had shown during the battle for Osgiliath. Dwarves and men followed the call, drawing together more closely, forming a semi-circle, weapons pointed outward. Faramir dismounted and joined beside Dwalin, knowing the dwarf’s instinct had been right.

 

“We still lose men to each new attack,” he said softly, reaching for his sword. The blade had been severely damaged in Osgiliath, but it was all he had.

 

“We need to make them lose a few of their riders too,” Dwalin grumbled. “Maybe they’ll tire of the game if it costs them too much.” The dwarf had both hands closed around his mighty warhammer. How many enemies had fallen from Stromcaller’s blows, Faramir could not tell anymore.

 

Silently he agreed with Dwalin, only that they had no arrows left, no cross-bow bolts either. Whatever ammunition they had carried with them was long gone – used to allow others to escape the merciless hunt. The Drakhár closed in, the wind of their wings the first touch of the enemy the Gondorian warriors felt. The Nazgûl remained at a height this time. Coldly Faramir waited for the Drakhár to reach them. The riders could have gone on to simply shoot them with arrows, but this was about terror as much as it was about killing. The enemy wanted them to feel the horror and bring the tale back to the city and they worked hard for that.

 

Faramir knew what was coming; the first Drakhár would close in enough to grab one of their number and toss him to his death, while the others would use the broken ranks to pick up two or three more victims. It was not an efficient strategy, but one effective to sow terror into the hearts of the remaining fighters. Seeing a huge Drakhár descend on him Faramir willed himself to be still, to be as calm as the surrounding lands. Neither Earth nor land ever cared for the battles fought upon them. As he breathed out he kept his eyes trained on the diving beast, blade firmly in both hands. When the Drakhár was almost in reach Faramir sprinted forward, directly at the beast. He still had to jump to reach the mighty claws of the winged lizard. He did not try to harm them - the claws were covered with hard scales - but he jumped on the crooked foot of the beast, stabbing his blade upwards, into the softer belly of the Drakhár. The beast shrieked in pain. The high pitch wail hurt Faramir’s ears as he was tossed off the claw, when the Drakhár began to ascend. The other attackers followed suit as the wounded lizard sought a safe distance from them.

 

He landed hard in the dust by the road, but Faramir pushed himself back to his feet, feeling a strong hand grabbing his arm and pull him up. “Good work,” Dwalin growled. “That will make them more careful the next time.” And there was no doubt that there would be a next time. There always was – they always came back, like the never tiring hunters of legend. Sometimes Faramir wondered why they had not made a swifter end instead of dragging out the painful chase.

 

“Let’s not wait for that.” Faramir’s eyes went ahead. They already were on the wide plains of Pelennor, the road winding through the fields towards the city. He could see the white walls shine at a distance, miles away. They still had a long way to go if they were to reach the safety the walls of his city were offering. “Put two of the wounded on my horse,” he said to Dwalin. “We need to march on.” As he turned to the fallen Faramir picked up the black arrows the Drakhár riders had fired. He would need them.

 

TRB

 

As another dawn rose above the peaks of the White Mountains, the path finally began to descend and from afar Boromir caught the first glimpse of the plains deep below. He breathed a sigh of relief; their four day passage through the mountains had proven harsh to say the least. The path that wound from Helm’s Deep across the heights of the White Mountains was narrow at best and led through the harsh, cold regions that had yet to fully recover from the past winter. High up, on paths that were mostly trodden by ibexes, the snows were not yet gone, and more than once they had been in danger of avalanches as they navigated the treacherous grounds leading them towards Minas Tirith. Few people lived so high up in the mountains and amongst them were those who maintained the fireplaces. Living on exposed peaks or well visible heights they kept the huge fireplaces ready and dry, watching out for a signal to rise on another peak. The never breaking chain spanned the entire length of the Mountains from Anorien to Minas Tirith herself, and while the fires had not been lit in three generations, the guardians still faithfully kept their lone vigil on the cold peaks.

 

The people of the mountains paid little attention to the two travelers as they passed through the land. Two strangers passing in haste meant little to them and very few ever spoke to the two travelers, if only to convey warnings about the path ahead. Boromir had not tried to engage in conversation beyond the barest necessities with the people; their hurry was too great. Kíli and he rode day and night, allowing the horses only the breaks that were absolutely necessary. Sleep had been scarce for both of them, but that had not slowed them down. And finally, finally they had reached their destination and the horses were racing down the slopes of the path along the flanks of mighty Mindolluin, and they saw the plains and the road to the gates of the city ahead. Boromir’s heart soared. He was glad to be back, seeing the White Walls of the city shine against the dawn in the east.

 

The heavy hooves rang like thunder on the paved road leading past hamlets and villages towards the city. Boromir frowned. They had been riding for three hours since dawn, but the skies remained dark. A dim grey light was all that lit the landscape surrounding them. Huge black clouds covered the eastern skies, having swallowed up whatever light the sunrise had tried to shed on the grounds of Pelennor. The road wound through Windreed’s Hill and finally they could see the gates ahead of them. Boromir’s breath nearly stopped when he saw the Eastern road.

 

Not half a mile from the city walls, on the road to Osgiliath, was a troop of warriors fighting. They were attacked by Drakhár and a Fell Beast and they were cornered against the ruin of what had once been a watch post before the city. The Fell Beast dove down upon them, grabbing a warrior and throwing him into the air. A single arrow wounded the Beast, making it rise into the air again. The archer stood upon the broken wall of the ruin, his tawny hair torn by the angry winds, one bright spot before the darkness. “Faramir!” He spurred his horse into full gallop, but Boromir did not need to look back to know that Kíli was with him. Their horses raced along the road towards the fighting men.

 

They saw the Drakhár riders attack again, their arrows and spears weeding out the fighters surrounding the ruin. In his heart Boromir knew that his brother would fall within the sight of the White City if they did not find a way to chase off the Drakhár and, even worse, the Nazgûl. Looking up he saw one huge Fell Beast swirl in the air and felt the brush of the icy presence like a cold wind touching his soul. The darkness unfurled its silent wings and called to him, whispering inside him like the echo of a dream he could not name. Fear rose inside him, memories of the darkness deep under the dread city, but at the same moment he felt the bright spark of the flame that had shielded him from the Shadow the same day. He was not alone under the endless night and that was all it took.

 

The Drakhár came down in a formation of five spears hailing down on the defenders, cutting through several warriors before the lizards rose again. As close as they came to the ground Boromir had to admit that their handlers performed a marvelous task at guiding the heavy beasts through the skies. The fearsome Fell Beasts shrieked in the air and thrust down like a hawk on its prey. It outstretched its claws, grabbed Faramir off the wall and slowly soared above the troop, not tossing its captive, but flaunting the catch.

 

Boromir did need neither words nor time to understand what this meant; they would not simply kill Faramir, but drag him away, into the same dark deeps Boromir knew, where he would die a gruesome death. Reaching down to the side he ripped one of the Drakhár rider’s spears from the ground. It was not much of a weapon, but it was all he had to try and save his little brother. A light rose before him, a cold blue flame rising from stone, shining like an eerie beacon in the unnatural darkness of the spring day and he knew what it meant. Kíli was giving him a chance against these beasts, bringing the legendary blue fire of his people into the fight, trusting him to use it well. Boromir dipped the spear into the flame. It burned at once, the blue flames greedily licking against the steel tip and wooden shaft. Boromir hardly looked if his aim had been true as he threw the spear with all his strength. He dismounted and yanked another spear from the body of a fallen soldier, ignited it and sent it after he first. He saw a third one closer – the riding spear of a dead Gondorian. He sprinted across the field to take it, setting it aflame as well, when the pained shrieks of the Fell Beast alerted him to the creature’s impending crash into the road.

 

Wounded and partially burned by the blue flame, the Fell Beast landed on the road. It collapsed to the side, its entire body shaking in agony. Boromir could see the rider – a black cloaked figure – rise from the saddle. There was no fear left in Boromir’s mind when he felt the whisper of the Nazgûl’s fell voice, no horror remained to slow him down. There was only determination left, and a strength he had never felt before. He fell into a sprint, using the burning lance in one powerful throw to set the black figure aflame. The shriek of the Nazgûl mingled with the screams of the dying Beast.

 

Hastily Boromir looked around for another weapon, but above them he heard a vaguely familiar voice bellow an order and the Drakhár began to soar higher and higher, retreating towards the East. A heavy thud brought him back to the present. The fierce, almost rushlike, strength faded from him. As he looked to the side, he saw the Fell Beast still, its head smashed by a hammer, as a bald dwarf jumped over the cold neck. “Hurry, we need to get him out of the claws.”

 

“I got him, Dwalin.” Kíli had approached the claws while the Fell Beast had been in its death throes and dragged Faramir out of reach. A few fresh gashes on his arms and neck showed that he had not fully evaded the Beast’s last convulsions.

 

Boromir hurried towards them. “How bad is it?” He could see that Faramir was still on the ground with Kíli kneeling beside him. Had the Beast’s grasp killed his brother? No… it could not be, it simply could not be.

 

“More dazed from the shaking than bruised from the claws,” Faramir replied for himself, sitting up. He was pale as death itself, but his eyes were shining with life. He pushed himself up to greet Boromir with a hug. “Your arrival was never more timely, brother.”

 

Boromir returned the hug, relieved beyond compare that Faramir was alive, alive and with them, not dragged away into the darkness, nor killed from the Fell Beast’s demise. When he let go, he looked around and saw the bald dwarf with the hammer approach. Dwalin – he had not changed at all – and he was still wielding Stormcaller. “Should I be more surprised that you showed up the last moment or that your solution was as fiery as always?” the old warmaster grumbled.

 

His words broke a wall inside Boromir. It was one thing to remember a life that never had happened, but it was something else entirely to see that others did remember too – that they remembered him. “I never heard you complain before,” he shot back, seeing the grin it brought on the dwarf’s stern mien. “Let us retreat to the city, ere they can bring reinforcements.”

 

There were not many survivors in Faramir’s retreat group, aside from Dwalin and another dwarven warrior named Aligern. There were only six of Faramir’s rangers who had lasted through the final bout against the Nazgûl. “Kíli, let the wounded have our horses, we will be faster that way.” Boromir hoped that they would have enough time to cover the half-mile to the city.

 

“I take it you gave strict order to not send a support troop for you?” he asked as they were marching along the road towards the city gate. Faramir walked beside him, having refused one of the horses in favor of those of his men who had been wounded by the Easterling’s arrows.

 

“Aye, there was no use in wasting troops on a suicidal charge on a Nazgûl.” Faramir’s voice was still somewhat shaky; no one walked out of a fight with a Nazgûl without being shaken and exhausted. “How… how did you even do what you did? You killed the Fell Beast, destroyed his form and drove them off…” He almost stumbled over the words.

 

Boromir looked down for a moment. His brother, the man who usually knew things before they happened, rarely showed clear signs of hardly understanding how something had happened. “It was not my doing alone. It was Kíli who thought of using the blue fire and brought it here.”

 

Faramir’s eyes strayed to the dwarf marching beside Dwalin, conversing with him in their own tongue. Contrary to his brother he had paid attention to the reports their ambassadors were sending from the north. “Prince Kíli of Erebor, you mean?” he asked. “Dwalin said that their Princes would probably return with you.”

 

“That would be the title,” Boromir confirmed, though the title felt strange to him. “Kíli son of Thorin, of the House of Durin.” A part of him felt strange about the ‘of Erebor’ part, but he tried not to dwell on that. “His son Anvari is still in Rohan. He will join us once the Rohirrim arrive here.”

 

Faramir did not reply directly to the words, but first checked their rear. There were no apparent pursuers, but how long could they hope for a reprieve? His brother’s words also surprised him; he had rarely heard his brother use genealogies correctly, and it seemed that he actually cared enough to know this one. He shook his head. He should not be surprised, because Boromir took alliances seriously, and while he would not bother to know the line of any foreign King, he’d take care to not offend active allies. “So Rohan is coming?” he asked, changing the topic to more immediate concerns. “I hoped they would, but there were whispers of danger encroaching on their lands as well.”

 

“Which were sadly all true,” Boromir shrugged. “I will tell you of all that once we are safe behind the walls. Much has happened since I left, though I believe you might know some more than I do, as always.”

 

Faramir stifled a smile. He was exhausted, the dark echoes of the Nazgûl’s presence were still upon him, but knowing that his brother was here, that he had come in time to safe them, gave him the strength to hold out.

 

The huge gates of Minas Tirith opened before them and Boromir could see the long gauntlet behind, walls of solid stone to trap any enemy who made it past the main gates. Thoroniâr stood at the end of the gauntlet with a full complement of guards, ready to fight in case the enemy tried to slip through the gate with the survivors. His relief showed clearly when he sheathed his blade and gave the signal to the troops to stand down.

 

With him stood several dwarves as well, lowering their axes on his signal. One of them had wild dark hair, richly streaked with grey and it took Boromir a moment to recognize Bifur again. He had changed a lot from the dwarrow he remembered. Faramir pointed his chin in his direction. “Bifur is Dwalin’s second, though conversing with him can be difficult at times.”

 

“He still only speaks ancient Khuzdul?” Boromir asked, well remembering the fierce, loyal dwarven wanderer from the long journey to Erebor. Not even a severe head wound had slowed the warrior down, and he had been more cunning than he sometimes admitted to.

 

“How do you know-,”

 

Faramir broke off when Bifur walked past them, ignoring them entirely to greet Kíli. The two clasped arms in dwarven fashion, and Bifur’s voice was warm and soft as he spoke. “Draz ghár Kithal, inor de me gar iz te puzar.”

 

„ _Your eyes carry the pain of a world, Storm-child. I see them and I weep with you.”_ Boromir could not tell how Bifur knew, but his words were clear enough. He read Kíli without fail. Feeling Faramir’s glance upon him for the unexpected translation, Boromir raised his hand, asking his brother to not question yet. It was not the time nor the moment.

 

Dwalin too had heard Bifur’s words and approached them. “What are you speaking off?” he demanded, though there was an odd tremor in his voice. “Kíli… what… who… Thorin?” The last word was barely above a whisper.

 

Kíli looked up, his dark eyes meeting Dwalin’s gaze. “Thorin fell in battle weeks ago, Dwalin. He fought a mighty fight in the shadow of Erebor.” His voice was shaky as he spoke. “Fíli… he followed him not long after.”

 

“No…” Dwalin’s voice was hoarse, the word almost shouted. “Thorin… no…” The pain that radiated off the powerful warrior was visible in how his strong shoulders hunched, his hands shook and he almost collapsed on himself. “Fíli too… oh why… Thorin would not want him to follow so soon…”

 

Kíli gave Bifur a gentle clasp on the arm and approached Dwalin, grasping his quivering shoulders. “Fíli fell defending the Reach. Mahal chose for him to leave the world soon after Thorin… They were never meant to be parted long.”

 

Boromir could not imagine what it must cost Kíli to say that, to speak like this, his compassion directed at his friends, at those who now learned the sad news of the events at Erebor. Under all the pain Kíli bore was a strength that endured, and that shone for others. He turned to Thoroniâr. “Thoron, clear the gauntlet, give them some space. Dark news doesn’t need to be spread around all the city,” he ordered, knowing Thoroniâr would see it done and keep the inevitable chatter amongst the soldiers at a minimum.

 

“The King of Erebor is dead?” Faramir had approached Boromir, their eyes meeting. “That is dire news indeed. Dwalin mentioned that they expected a Siege, but he was confident that they could outlast it.”

 

“And they did,” Boromir replied, firmly. “But King Thorin fell in battle – may Mahal receive him in his halls in honor – and his son, Prince Fíli, fell soon after. Kíli felt his brother die.”

 

Again Faramir noticed the familiar way in which Boromir spoke of their dwarven ally. Was it possible that a friendship had sprung between them during their journey? It was possible, but did not answer half his questions. His eyes went back to the dwarves standing together in the shadow of the walls. Dwalin had straightened up again, though his eyes were still shining treacherously. “Thorin passed on and Fíli… Mahal, Kíli… and you are still standing?”

 

“What choice do I have?” Kíli replied to the bald warrior.

 

“Will they stay?” Faramir could not help but ask. With a King and Crown Prince dead, their homeland was in more immediate danger of disarray and the alliance between them and Gondor had sprung out of nowhere, for reasons that no one yet quite understood.

 

He felt Boromir’s glare almost physically. “Of course they will stay. They’d never break a word once given. And Kíli, he’d never cave in and run. No matter how much it tears him apart inside, he’ll do what he came here to do.” Boromir’s voice was almost a grumble, before he realized it and steadied his speech. “Fíli’s eldest son will lead Erebor on. From what we heard last they successfully broke the Siege. It might not be the end of the war for them, but it is hope.”

 

Like he had felt him speak of hope Kíli turned around, tilting his head slightly to look up. “Bifur says my people are garrisoned in the Undercity,” he said, his voice still a little soft, but otherwise steady again. “Would it be possible to delay the formal meeting with your esteemed father for a few hours, Boromir? You know what news my people just learned…”

 

Boromir waved it off. “Formalities can wait, Kíli. Take the time you need to take care of your people. We will have darker worries before long, I fear.” He could feel an echo of emotions from Kíli, trying to reach out in turn and let him know that he had not to bear it alone.

 

“You have changed, brother,” Faramir observed as they walked up the long streets towards the citadel. “In more ways than I can name. And you seem to have befriended our dwarven allies.”

 

“It is a long tale, Faramir.” Boromir hardly knew where to begin. “And not one we may have time for. Father will wish to hear what has transpired North, and what lies ahead of us.”

 

“Another Doom reaching for us?” Faramir asked, his mind harkening back to their conversation before Boromir had departed the city.

 

“The doom of the world and the ray of hope to drive it back,” Boromir replied. “The final days are here, Fari. The Shadow is rising again and we all will have to stand or fall under its wings. And the strength of a world is opposing the rise of darkness.”

 

There was a distinct change in Boromir, one that Faramir hardly could describe. It was not just the slightly poetic choice of words, or all the riddles he had noticed in him since their encounter before the gates. Beneath all that lay a new strength, a soul of steel… and for the first time in his life Faramir wondered if he still knew his older brother.

 

Down by the gates Thoroniâr recounted the events on the fields before the walls to Veryan and a few other troop leaders: how Faramir nearly had been killed by the Nazgûl and his foul minions and how the Captain of Gondor had appeared in just the right moment, like the Lord of the Morning himself, to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* Don’t forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!!
> 
> The second is to my readers for being away for so long. The last weeks were really stressful and things are only slowly getting better. I wrote this chapter half-asleep in between boxes and moving crates. So I hope no thoughts of packing and moving wandered in between. :p.


	28. To seek an answer

The cold was seeping from the walls of Orthanc like an echo of an unheard whisper as another deep night fell on the dread tower. As he leaned against the ancient stone wall Saruman had no eyes for the falling night, no ears for the whispering silence that always rose in such hours. In the centuries he had lived inside these walls he had gotten familiar with the tower’s changes, though he had not delved into all secrets the black stone building held. He knew that the tower held an untapped power, but for all his experiments and research, he had never found the key to unlocking it. Whatever the rite the long dead Numenorán builder had written into these walls, Saruman had never been able to find it. Thisdid not mean the tower was not useful; it had often been and right now the expanding night slowed his foe down. For all his new powers, pure darkness was still Gandalf’s primary weakness.

 

Their fight had been an uneven one; deprived of his powers Saruman had been forced to fall back on all the secrets and artifacts he had stored inside the tower in countless years. Gandalf also wished for answers, and their long, twisted conversations had taken hours. And that was the most important thing: time. The longer Gandalf pursued him through these halls, the more time he lost and the world outside ticked on mercilessly. And instead of wasting his time on trying to finish Saruman, Gandalf should pay attention to his allies. Was he even aware what was wrong with the Man and the Dwarf? Did he even see the world spin out of its path, the pattern itself scream under the whirlwind those two had created? What they could possibly become if they were strong enough to not flinch away from that path? Saruman had seen it inside the Palantír, he knew the potential that slumbered in them. Who in this wide world had been crazy enough to teach this particular spell to a mortal?

 

He straightened up and limped on towards the stairs. His body hurt and he knew his form would not last much longer. Without his powers to maintain and renew his chosen form he was doomed to die soon enough, and Gandalf had broken most of the obstacles he had put in his way. Saruman smiled grimly. This might be his final night on Arda, he might be checkmate, deprived of any meaningful way to fight back, but like in any good game of chess he had one final move to make. And this one move would hurt those who had brought about his downfall. He climbed the last stairs to his study, a silent room where he had contemplated Orthanc’s powers for many a night. On the stone pillar before him shone the blue orb – the Palantír. The creator of these miraculous stones had seen it fit to make them so that anyone could use them, whether or not he had powers. All it took was a firm will. And Saruman had enough of that left. He would use it to accomplish his final move.

 

TRB

 

Elrohir strode across the path between the tents, trying to calm his flaring temper. He had certainly known that some Noldorin could be problematic, but Russandol and his brother put that word to a new definition. Each and every conversation he had with them ended with him feeling tarred with the wrong brush, assessed and found lacking. He wondered how Anvari dealt with them so well. He never seemed riled by them, never hurt by their occasional sharp tongue and seemed to find some affection in their words as well. Elrohir did not understand it, or maybe it were his own changes that made things suddenly harder for him. He did not know. Maybe it was his choice that built a rift between them.

 

He slowed down when he reached the heart of the camp, seeing another long column of riders arrive. They came from all across Rohan to the Mustering. Each day, sometimes each hour, brought a new group, some as large as entire éoreds, some small enough to count as a skirmisher group. They were old warriors, seasoned veterans of many fights and young fighters who had grown up in the many borderland skirmishes Rohan had, and youngsters who were so young that it tore Elrohir’s heart to see them trying to keep up with the seasoned warriors. There also was nearly no group that did not bring the odd girl with them to be sent to Éowyn and her warriors.

 

“Another group from the Eastermarch, Feór’s Hold this time.” Éomer had approached him. He was in charge of organizing the troops and had taken to the task with all his strength. “What word from our allies?” He cast an almost shy glance towards the outer rim of the camp where the pale tents were visible.

 

“They will move their camp beyond the creek and are already scouting a wide area for traces of Orcs,” Elrohir replied. He could see Éomer’s unease all written over the man’s demeanor. It was not easy for the Rohirrim to deal with the eerie elven army that would march with them towards the great war. And it also made them feel a little like they were becoming part of a great old story, a legend that would be told in a thousand years still, and that gave them strength too. “But may I suggest you ask Anvari or Fionn to run such errands from now on? It seems they are getting their answers much easier than I do.”

 

Éomer laughed. For a moment the hardened warrior melted away and made room for the young man he was. “Anvari is running messages for me to them almost day and night and he has to take care of his banner as well. I put him in charge of them again, for Raedan and Haleth cannot handle the many newcomers on their own.”

 

“He has not that much experience on them,” Elrohir pointed out, surprised that Éomer would accept the dwarf like that. “He is a youth that some of his more traditional people would not considered fully grown yet.”

 

“How old is he?” Éomer asked as they walked the rest of the way through the steadily growing camp.

 

“Seventy-two but that says little in terms of their people.” Elrohir tried an explanation. Sure, Kíli had fought a dragon at that age, and survived the Battle of the Five Armies, but fate had seen it fit to protect Durin’s House during those events, or the price would have been a steep one.

 

“More than double my age and with as many years of training and travelling,” Éomer replied. “I am putting men in charge of banners who are barely twenty and saw their first blood in Helm’s Deep. I wish we could have kept his father as well. He seemed familiar enough with my people, but Boromir will need someone at his back on the way home.”

 

There was a pragmatism in Éomer that Elrohir found appealing. He did not debate that doom was upon them, he did not contemplate to evade it, but he tackled it head-on and whatever weapon could be useful in such a fight would be utilized.

 

“Elrohir?” The Rohirrim warrior had stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Are you alright?”

 

“I am well.” Elrohir realized he had been lost in thought for a moment. “Just contemplating where to expand the camp to, once the Elves have moved theirs.”

 

“That can wait.” Éomer met his eyes, worry in them. “Aragorn is planning something, and my heart warns me against it. I wish he would reconsider. You have been his friend for longer than I can say, maybe you can convince him otherwise? I fear for him.”

 

“We all have our paths to tread,” Elrohir replied, surprised how strongly Aragorn affected the Rohirrim. He had never truly mentioned his claim to Gondor’s throne, but people sensed it, like an invisible aura. “But I will speak to him.”

 

The leaders of the freshly arrived group of riders approached Éomer and Elrohir saw it as his cue to take his leave. He strode across the camp towards the outer edge and found Aragorn packing up a few small supplies. Standing in a few steps distance, the sight of Estel packing for another quest made Elrohir smile. How often had he seen him like this, ready to brave the darkness in Eriador again?

 

Aragorn looked up and deftly rose to his feet. “Lurking in the shadows does not suit you, Elrohir,” he said, his eyes warm with an old joke between them. “Did Éomer send you?”

 

“Not really, though he is worried about your plans,” Elrohir observed. “He would prefer you with the army, not on some dark and twisting path.”

 

“And you?” Aragorn asked softly, the question carrying a wealth of meaning. In the past they had clashed more than once. Elrohir had tried to train Aragorn to be a leader, to take responsibility for the failing Dunedain populace of Eriador and had been disappointed when Aragorn had chosen a slower, more secretive path. Their friendship had recovered from that, and they had braved many dangers together since, but there was a part of Aragorn that still saw Elrohir as the older brother, the mentor who had trained him and whose opinion he valued.

 

“I am surprised you are considering such a path.” Elrohir’s eyes followed the path that wound through Dunharrow and towards the Dimholt and the Dwimorberg. He could feel an icy chill run down his spine when the wind brushed against him. “And I doubt you should go alone, whatever your reasons.”

 

“I made a promise, Elrohir.” Aragorn too had stopped, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I promised Boromir that if he could hold the city for as long as it took me to get there, I’d bring an army to smash any Siege. I promised a friend I would find the weapon to save the White City.”

 

So it was true. Meeting Boromir had finally nudged Aragorn towards the role he was born to play. Elrohir wondered how strongly the meeting might have affected Estel. “You still should not go alone.”

 

Now Aragorn smiled as he turned towards him. “Not this time, Elrohir. This is my path… and a path I need to take alone. If there is truly a spark of the Kings of Old in me, this will be the final trial, the proof that if it is true, if I can be what others expect in me.” Their eyes met and there was a firm determination in Aragorn’s gaze. “This is not a path you can join me on, Elrohir. You have your own path to find again.”

 

Elrohir knew Aragorn’s words were true. Much as he wished they were not, in his heart he could not deny them. “A long time ago a friend told me that the true strength of a leader did not stem from a bloodline, training, nor any other mystical sources, but from yourself, from believing that you can be that person. _All you have to do is to choose to be that warrior_ , he said, and he proved right about it for all his life.”

 

“That sounds like a Kíli saying.” Aragorn could almost hear the dwarf’s deep voice grumble such a statement with the appropriate impatience for Menfolk and their doubt.

 

“It was Thorin.” Elrohir’s eyes strayed towards the cold peaks of the Mountains when his thoughts turned to the friend who had died bravely, defending Erebor. They all were headed for that path, for a battle to protect the world they loved.

 

Silently they went on until the edge of the camp was far behind them and they stood by the path winding towards Dimholt, the Dwimorberg looming above them. Aragorn stopped again. “This is it, Elrohir, you cannot go any further. We will meet on the other side, the Light willing.”

 

With a heavy heart Elrohir watched as Aragorn turned and followed the dim path into the shadows of the valley. He had always hated seeing friends walk into danger with him remaining behind, and for a moment he was tempted to disregard Aragorn’s wishes and brave the Mountain, but he held back. His little brother had grown into a man and friendship demanded he respect his wishes. “The Light protect you and guide your path safely,” he whispered as he saw Aragorn’s figure vanish into the shadows.

 

TRB

 

Theodred knew it was time. He should have addressed this topic as soon as the battle was done, but he had yet pushed it off. Standing with Háma at the heart of the camp, he watched the two strange figures walk towards the side of the encampment. It was a strange sight, maybe the strangest he had ever seen. Maybe he had gotten used to the sly sneaking figure of Gríma so well that the change came too swiftly, that he had never managed to see beneath his mask.

 

Gríma’s friend Halwen had proven a great warrior during the battle of Helm’s Deep, fighting with a fierce will and brutal skill that left little doubt he had led a life of fighting. He had always kept an eye out for Gríma too, who had done reasonably well for a man who had never chosen to be a warrior. The two usually kept together and away from others in the camp. Halwen did it almost naturally, with the air of a man long used to being a stranger. “It is a strange thing seeing Gríma like that… so changed, having a friend…” Theodred realized he had spoken out loud, because Háma looked the same way.

 

“I had not thought to see them like that ever again,” the warrior replied after a moment. “Not with… Halwen… dead. They were the strangest of friends when they were young. No one could quite understand it.”

 

Háma would be of one age with them, Theodred realized, maybe someone who had known them before whatever fate had driven them on their paths. “Why?” he asked. Maybe he wanted to know more of them before he had to sit down and hear Gríma’s story.

 

“Gríma’s mother was one of Queen Morwen’s ladies, having come with her from Gondor. Her marriage was one to a man of ill repute and hardly a happy one.” Háma’s eyes were on the two men still, who were lighting a lone campfire again. “Her son was unfortunate enough to take after the mother; dark, quiet and bookish. He had a hard time of it, growing up in Edoras. Until… Halwen… befriended him. He was the son of the Guardian of the North; bright, a good fighter and popular with the boys. No one ever understood why he chose to befriend Gríma, why he cared what Gríma read in his books, but friends they became and friends they remained when they grew into men.”

 

“You know Halwen’s true name, don’t you?” Theodred asked softly, his heart growing heavy. Something warned him that this story held a lot of pain. His dying father had wished he had spoken to Halwen again, to tell him he regretted not having asked where he had truly been, whatever that meant. But there was a story in all of this, and Theodred knew it had come to light.

 

“Aye, I do,” Háma said. “Aeonar was never good at hiding, and most of those who once knew him keep their distance now, because we saw his dead body, the day after he killed himself in his cell.”

 

“Aeonar?” Theodred stood entirely still, trying to still his racing heart. “Háma, if my father ever held an erroneous judgment against himself, it was the judgment he passed on Aeonar son of Adair.”

 

“The judgment was never carried out. Aeonar took his own life in his cell the night before the execution,” Háma pointed out, shaking his head.

 

“I somehow doubt he truly did that,” Theodred said. His father had only once spoken of the case, warning him that a King must never trust things as they appeared to be when he had to pass judgment. “And I think it is time to gain answers. Send for Éomer and Éowyn to meet me there.” He left Háma standing where he was and walked towards the lone campfire.

 

Both men rose when he approached. There was a slight tension in Gríma, while Halwen… Aeonar stood with the relaxed pose of a fighter unafraid to face a King. “The men are whispering that you are Aeonar son of Adair, Halwen, and before I even begin to hear Gríma’s own tale I wish to know the truth of you.”

 

“It is true, Prince Theodred,” Aeonar replied, his eyes steady on him. “I was born Aeonar son of Adair, though after leaving Rohan I lived under the name of Halwen Hervangár up North.”

 

Éomer and Éowyn arrived, both tensing at the sight of Gríma as well, but Theodred could see how well his cousins held back on their anger. He sat down by the fire, gesturing the others to sit as well. “Gríma, in Isengard you told me that it was twenty-two years ago that you entered Saruman’s service, and I told you I would hear you out should you return to us. I believe the story also ties in with your friend’s here.”

 

Gríma looked at him, his eyes shining with an odd expression, almost vulnerable. “It is a long tale, my Prince, so I have to beg your patience to hear it. Twenty-three years ago your noble father married Elfhild, daughter of Adair, as you will recall…”

 

Theodred sat up straight, finally realizing where he had heard the name before. His mother had been a daughter of Adair. “Was she your sister?” he asked Aeonar. Should his own blood, his mother’s brother, be involved somehow in the story of Gríma’s treachery?

 

“That she was,” Aeonar replied. “And it was no secret that I had been conflicted about her choices.”

 

“You doubted my father?” Theodred tried to ask calmly. A King had to judge evenly, not in rage and not in temper, no matter how personal a situation got. If a King’s mind was not a hoard of peace, his people would suffer.

 

“I doubted her heart, for I was not sure if she had chosen the man or the King,” Aeonar shrugged, an echo of sadness in his eyes. “Gríma says she died only a few months after I… left, so my doubts were as useless as were the debates we had once.”

 

Gríma cast a glance to his friend and Theodred was startled to see the compassion in the sly advisor’s eyes. “During spring twenty-two years ago, a few months after the marriage, Vandine, who was the leader of the second éored, then came across a conspiracy against your father. Several riled war-leaders from the borderlands were conspiring against Théoden’s life. There was proof for some of it, and other things were based on Vandine’s word alone, who had overheard many of their conversations. On King Théoden’s behest Vandine returned to the meeting place one last time to find out who the conspiracies’ leader was. He returned, claiming that the leader he had seen there was Aeonar.”

 

“The very same Vandine who almost claimed me being in league with Éomer against my father?” Theodred asked, recalling the tense moments before Vandine had murdered King Théoden. Had he been a treacherous cur even then, had he lied?

 

“The very same,” Gríma confirmed his question. “His word cast a long shadow over Edoras. Aeonar was captured and imprisoned the same morning, as were some others. While a few others confessed, Aeonar kept his silence. He refused to speak, to tell where he had been that night, for he had not been in Edoras. His silence enraged King Théoden even more, for I doubt the King initially wished to believe that Aeonar was guilty of what he had been accused of.” Gríma raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Many spoke to the King, many who knew Aeonar and who knew if he had truly issue with the King, he would challenge him openly and not conspire at night with traitors. And I… I for one knew that Aeonar lacked any skill to set forth such a conspiracy without help.”

 

“And as you knew of nothing, you were sure there had not been a conspiracy.” Theodred could not keep some wry amusement out of his voice. He could well imagine Gríma, annoyed, sarcastic Gríma, tell someone off for his lack of skill in the field of intrigue. He also recalled what Gríma had said to him, when he had warned him about Saruman’s other spies, how a name uttered in the wrong connection could doom a man. Was that what had happened here?

 

“Exactly.” Gríma raised his eyes, meeting Theodred’s gaze. “I sought to prove Aeonar’s innocence, and I was as confounded as your father by his silence. He would not share where he had been during those fateful hours and young as I was then, I did not think of the one good reason he might have had right away.”

 

“There was a good reason in all this?” Éomer interjected. He stood with his arms crossed half a step behind Theodred, a visible protector and guard, a gesture so utterly him it would have made Theodred smile in any other moment.

 

“Her name was Wyna.” Gríma’s voice echoed some impatience with Éomer’s slowness. “I believe your father too knew her, at a later time. Her association with Aeonar only became known when her child was born, months after the initial events.” He cast a glare to Aeonar, who had cast down his eyes, to hide how close the memories came to him. “You were a fool, trying to spare my feelings when I already knew how she’d chosen if she saw her chance with you.”

 

“You kept your silence because of a woman?” Theodred had heard the name of Wyna before and he had the vague notion that Gríma had taken some responsibility for her orphaned son Aelvorn.

 

“For an unmarried woman having an affair with one of the riders.” Aeonar looked up again, raising his chin. “My intentions towards her might have been more honorable than things looked like, and I would not bring her the dishonor for being known as the woman I had spent that night with.”

 

And now it all began to make sense. “So you refused to speak, my father heard the confessions of those others implicated and had to believe that you were guilty and thus… passed judgment.” Again he recalled his father warning him against judging in haste, against believing that things were what they appeared to be. How long had this judgment haunted him? For the rest of his life? It was a bitter price to pay for one mistake.

 

“The sentence was death.” Gríma took up the tale again. “There is no other judgment for treason, and no matter what words others brought forward… they were not heard. In vain I sought the King out and asked for more time to get to the truth about the conspiracy. The judgment was set to be carried out the day after Midsummer’s eve. And the time was running out. Thus on Midsummer’s eve twenty-two years ago I rode to Isengard, seeking the counsel of Saruman the White, hoping for advice, for a way to prevent this judgment from happening, for a way to save Aeonar.” Drawing in his legs, Gríma seemed to become smaller, drawing in on himself, like the memory was crushing him.

 

“Saruman did indeed receive me and hear me out. He seemed cool, aloof and hardly interested in Rohan’s affairs. _Many a guiltless man has been hanged, and many a rogue went free, Gríma. Proving the innocence of a convicted man to an enraged King is as futile as carrying water to the seas,_ he told me, and then he had a suggestion, one that would preserve Aeonar’s life and his freedom, though it would mean exile. He gave me a vial with a draught and instructed me to make sure Aeonar drank it. He would fall into a deep, almost death-like sleep and be mistaken for having died. The cup with the remains of the draught was found in the cell and everyone would assume that he had committed suicide to evade the dishonor of being hanged. It worked; no one doubted that Aeonar had killed himself, thus admitting his own guilt. I smuggled his ‘corpse’ away from Edoras and made sure he left Rohan.”

 

“But it came at a price,” Aeonar said, his clear voice shaky. “Saruman extracted a price from you for saving me.”

 

“In that night I swore a blood oath to him, to serve and obey him, to serve his allies and oppose his enemies. So I became his servant, his creature, so deep in his council that he sometimes forgot to tell me things, assuming I would know them anyway.” Gríma straightened up and with one tensing of his shoulders made the sly, sneaking advisor vanish, becoming again the calm, intelligent man he was underneath. “So you here you have me, my Prince, traitor to Rohan, willingly so, oath-breaker to Saruman and everyone else who ever demanded a promise from me and whatever judgment you pass on me, I will accept.”

 

“We both will.” Aeonar put his hand on Gríma’s shoulder. “If not for my stupidity back then, Gríma would never have gone to Isengard, and that makes it my guilt just as well. Whatever his fate is, it shall be mine too.”

 

Theodred was tempted to close his eyes, to let all what he had heard settle upon him. It was a whirl of error, pride and finally treason, one small thing leading into a swamp of betrayal that he could hardly imagine to navigate. He now understood why Gríma had always been friendly to him. He had seen an echo of his Uncle… of Aeonar… in him. How could he judge their path? Was there a law written in the world of Men or Elder Folk that could encompass such a story? _The written law they write in Gondor is utter foolishness, for there is no rule that will apply to any man or any deed. A King must find justice for each man brought before him, no matter how complicated,_ he recalled his father say to him, and there had been great wisdom in his words, although finding said justice for those two seemed impossible. Gríma’s treachery had cost lives, and he had delivered Theodred to Isengard, though this last deed had been what finally broke him from Saruman’s grasp. Over all of that he was an oath-breaker now, and there was no darker thing any man could be. The whispers of what became of those who broke their oaths were myriad amongst the Rohirrim.

 

“You have both delivered yourself to my council. Now hear my judgment,” Theodred spoke up eventually, his eyes firmly upon them. “You both carry a debt of blood to this land, and you both carry the burden of a crime committed against you. They both weight heavy, but cannot cancel each other out. So this is my sentence: you both will go with us and fight the Shadow with all the strength you have in you, you will serve Rohan to fulfill her greatest obligation, the Oath of Eorl. Should you not fall in battle, you will be free to go wherever you choose, when the war is over and done with.”  

 

TRB

 

The light of evening slowly began to seep through the high windows, casting the room into a gentle, almost soft light. Faramir stood beside the oriel window, watching the two other people present. Boromir’s return was a happy moment for all of them, but most of all for his father, who had sometimes silently doubted they’d meet again. Seeing Denethor’s tall, if thin, figure embracing his eldest son to welcome him home had been a good, joyous moment and Faramir kept at the fringes to allow them their own moment of rejoicing. They were a strange contrast, Denethor with his fading strength, kept upright by the indomitable will that had carried him through the long years during which his strength had waned, drained by his efforts to keep Gondor together, and Boromir, powerful, stronger than ever and more vibrant with life than Faramir remembered.

 

He had listened when Boromir told them of the Council, of Durin’s Bane and the doom that finally had set in motion the final days of this age. He spoke of their adventures, of being chased by Orcs through Hollin and taking refuge in Ost-in-Edhil, of crossing Moria and encountering the elves of the Golden Wood. He spoke of Isengard and of the battles in Rohan, and Faramir could see the gleam in his brother’s eyes. No matter how long or how dark the road had been, his brother would not change a thing in the hare-brained risks he took. He spoke of his comrades: the Halflings, small and hardier than they looked, the Elven Prince and his companion, courageous and knowledgeable, the two dwarves steadfast and loyal and… Thorongil.

 

That topic he had broached with an almost unusual gentleness, trying to not step on toes, but Faramir could tell that his brother had taken a liking to the Northern Ranger, which was a miracle in and by itself. “He will bring another army to the field,” Boromir finished his tale. “I do not know what alliances he can call on, but we will sorely need them once the full-fledged Siege begins.”

 

Denethor had risen from his chair and walked over to one of the windows of his study, lean, frail hands closing around the stone sill, his eyes out on the city below. “So you have met the last of Isildur’s line,” he said, his voice a hush. “And you seem to accept him for what he is, for what his claim is.” There was a distinct bitterness in Denethor’s voice as he spoke. “He is a tool in the hands of Mithrandir. At his behest he left Gondor, at his call he turned from his people.”

 

“We agreed to not bother with ranks or who we might one day be until we knew if we survived the war at all,” Boromir replied. “Though there were moments where a small reminder of who he was, who he could be, was needed. Aragorn is a good man, although his time amongst the elves left him with more doubts than is good for any man.”

 

The old steward turned to his son, hawkish eyes surveying the warrior leaning relaxed against the marble pillar holding the vaulted ceiling of the room. “But if the war were over and for a miracle neither of us can see we survived, could you bend knee to this Ranger? Could you greet him as King of this City?” he asked more sharply, shrewd eyes watching his son.

 

Boromir did not reply at once. His eyes strayed to the window and then fell on his right arm where the eerie mark of the dragon burned brightly. His fingers gently traced the wings of dragon, so lost in thought that he did not even notice it. “I doubt that this is my destiny,” he said softly, barely audible. But when he looked at Denethor, his green eyes were firm again. “We did well, father. We guarded this city for nine hundred years, through storms and peace, through despair and hope. We guarded this city and we never let her forget that she is a King’s City.” He pushed away from the pillar, approaching the older man.

 

“And we can go out with our heads held high. We fulfilled the obligations of our ancestors, we kept our word to protect this city and her people. We can hand back the office proudly, for we did the best that we could and accomplished the task. To strife for more, for a rulership that never was ours, would be… low. I know you, father. You never were a petty man, nor low enough to greed for a throne that none of us needs. As for me… my ambition is to keep this land safe and protect this city best that I can. It would be a proud moment to hand her back to the King’s Rule, when the Shadow is defeated, to hand back a city of peace, a city still standing. It would prove we were worthy of the trust placed into the House of Húrin. And I would gladly lay down that burden and step back then, knowing the city in good hands.”

 

Faramir saw a rare smile rise in his father’s features, a smile they had almost never seen since the murder of their mother. “You have the noble spirit of your mother, Boromir.” Denethor’s voice had softened, warmth creeping into it. “And you make me very proud. You have fought so hard to shield this city and still you do not assume upon a place that must have crossed your mind before.”

 

Watching their embrace, Faramir’s heart was eased a good deal. Whatever storms lay ahead, at least there was no rift in their family. He slipped from the room, leaving them alone. He had one more question to answer, one that was hounding him, for something had changed in his brother. Boromir was not quite the same man who had left this city. Faramir could almost physically see what his sight tried to show him. If he closed his eyes, he could see two versions of his brother: the man who had left the city months ago and another; harder, edgier and older. Both were his brother, and both were strangers at the same time. It all tied somehow to the changed dragon-seal on Boromir’s arm. But his own gift would not reveal more, which worried him.

 

In the hour of sunset Faramir slipped into the Tower of Kings alone and climbed the long stairs to the top of the Tower. He had never gone here alone before. Usually it was him and his father coming here. If there was a place they truly shared, it was this room. His bond to his father was fundamentally different from his brother’s bond to him. Their father loved Boromir with all the pride of a father, and it was no wonder, for Boromir was like a bright star, a hero who could have lived in an Elder Age, a spark of hope against the darkness. Faramir did not begrudge his brother the love of their father; he felt much the same way. The bond he shared with his father was different. It was a bond of shared struggles and shared secrets, of understanding the other on a level that few people could compare. It was a bond of a shared burden, of trudging along to protect this city. It was the path of those who would never feel the storm of destiny under their wings and still had to accomplish the task fate has set for them.

 

Maybe he should return to them and simply ask Boromir? No, there was something too deeply changed in his brother, like fate itself had reached for him to ignite the spark into flame. It could change the war entirely and someone had to know what it meant. He could not burden his father with this; Denethor loved his son and such knowledge would bear him down even more. Faramir sat down slowly in the chair opposite of the Palantír, still hesitating. He felt like a jealous brother trying to steal secrets, foolish as that was. What he did was to understand what had happened to his brother and what it would mean for the overall war. It was to protect him, and because Faramir longed to understand what had changed his brother so deeply. Slowly he placed his hands on the table beside the orb, silently vowing that nothing he saw would break his love for his brother, or his family. It was for them that he did this, not against them. The Palantír flared brightly and a spark of light rose inside, drawing him into a whirlwind of visions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* Don’t forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!!


	29. As if the world were mist

The silence of Orthanc was perpetual, like the world itself had ceased to exist beyond the doors of Saruman’s study. The wizard’s shaking hand still rested on the Palantír, though his strength was waning greatly. The struggle had been longer and harder than he had expected, but now… now his prey was finally within his grasp, drawn to this place, from whence there was no escape safe through the darkest of forbidden rituals. The former Istari smiled, it was a fitting punishment, as fitting as he could think of and now it was time to seal the fate of his victim and defy Gandalf for one last time.

 

How often had his old friend underestimated him? A lot, Saruman liked to think. But Mithrandir’s greatest mistake had always been to underestimate what people would do to accomplish their goals. There were fools and heroes dying for the cause and there were those who died knowing their blood would unleash their final revenge. From the wide sleeve of his robe Saruman pulled the dagger, a black blade he had found in the deeps of this Tower when he had come here so many lifetimes ago. Turning the tip against himself, he sank forward, his exhausted body finally succumbing to the fatigue. And as his blood touched the Palantír and the stone floor at his feet, Orthanc awoke – the darkness whispering in the silence and the writings on the wall moving. The mighty tower finally woke to the call of the night.

 

TRB

****

The Temple of the Dark in Minas Morgul was small, an almost unimportant building situated near the destroyed royal gardens of old. Built from the dark granite of the surrounding Mountains of Shadow, it was an almost austere, simple hall, lacking the splendor of the great Temples of the Dark in the East, or the exotic beauty of the temples in the South. To Shakurán the small building often looked like an ill-maintained compromise, grudgingly permitted by the Witch King. While the worship of the Great Lord had been made mandatory in the Easterling Empire since Emperor Jadhur emerged victorious from the ashes of the Great Imperial Succession and took the throne, no such rules applied in Mordor itself.

 

It was a contradiction he had not understood when he had been sent to serve in the dread city more than two decades ago. The Eye of Barad-Dûr did not care whether or not its soldiers kept the faith in the Great Lord, as long as they were loyal. As the years passed Shakurán had seen many of his comrades who served in the city stop going to the Dark Temple. Serving in Minas Morgul changed any man, Shakurán was well aware of that fact. Navigating the currents between the Nazgûl Lords and playing the deathly politics between them came at a high price. He also knew that the Empire regarded any soldier who had been stationed in Minas Morgul for more than a few years lost, someone the Empire would not welcome back home, because the change ran too deep.

 

Shakurán was alone as he kneeled in the simple temple hall. Even the Temple Guards and the Guardian of the Dark Fire kept their distance from him. He knew why. They could see the pale patterns carved into his arms and shoulders, the ancient ritual marks of the Soul Sacrifice he was preparing for. The marks had been drawn in the great temple at Cymarkhan. It was as much as the Guardian of the Dark Fire there could have done. It took dedication to slowly open oneself to the night, until the marks would slowly become dark. Once they all were filled with shadowy lines, the preparations would be complete. As such Shakurán understood why he had been chosen for this task, although he still disliked the thought of using such a dishonorable weapon against Minas Tirith. Because the marks would only fill for someone truly dedicated, who kept undergoing the Calling and the Embrace of the Darkness until the Marks would be filled.

 

He smiled grimly. Who was he fooling here? His own brother had played a hand in that decision, insinuating that Shakurán was unreliable, and when he found no ear in the Witch King’s court, he had pulled the strings he had in the command hierarchy at Barad-Dûr. The result were these preparations, and a yet undecided order when to finish the rite. Shakurán looked up to the dark flame, trying to focus; he found performing the Embrace here quite hard. The Temple lacked the _presence_ other temples had, the deep resonating echoes of the night eternal. Or maybe he had felt like that about nearly every temple he had encountered since… since returning from the ruins of Númenor. What he had experienced in the Temple of the Great Lord at the island went beyond anything he had ever felt in any temple on the mainland, and that included the greatest temples of the Empire.

 

He closed his eyes and pictured the mighty dark halls again, the statue of the shadow warrior above the chalices of the black fire, the powerful echo of the night eternal. The words came by themselves as Shakurán’s voice rose in the chant of the Calling, as he felt the flames reach for him and the darkness’s unfurling might wings around him. It was glorious, exhilarating to feel the dark storm brush him like wings that would carry him to the void itself. And like back then, in the temple on Númenor, he suddenly felt like the great statue was directly looking at him. His mind was severed from his body as the wings of the Night carried his soul up and towards an unknown place. Shakurán did not struggle; his mind spread its wings to fly and follow the call.

 

TRB

 

The refuges were cluttering the road in an endless column pouring into Minas Tirith. Kíli knew that the populace was fleeing the Enemy advance, seeking refuge in their fortress city. But it was slow going; many of them were women and children struggling on their way across the Pelennor. In spite of the dangers Minas Tirith had dispatched troops to help them along and fend off whatever Enemy forays were already hounding them. So far the Enemy seemed uninterested in a hasty advance, reinforcing their position in the ruins of Osgiliath. It gave them at least a little time to get the people out of their reach.

 

Kíli and many of the dwarves had joined the troops going out to aid the fleeing people. In the perpetual grey light, a night never quite ending, they saw better than Menfolk. The crossroads they stood at was five miles from the city gate and here several smaller country roads convened. He heard the crack moments before a particularly old farmer’s cart broke down. An old woman and two small children were on that cart along with whatever possessions they had brought along. Kíli strode over. It took only one glance to see that the hind wheel was pushed out of angle, and the cart was hanging half in the dust of the road. Bifur was there nearly the same moment. Kíli grabbed the cart’s corner and spanned his arms to pull it up to allow Bifur a look at the problem. “The axle?” he voiced his own guess about why the cart had broken.

 

“Only the hanging this time,” Bifur replied, slipping further under the damaged wagon. “Though this old axle will not last them much longer either.”

 

Kíli saw the questioning looks of the old woman and her grandchildren. Her bewildered eyes made it quite clear that she was not sure what to think of the strangers aiding her, or of the strange tongue they spoke. Like always when talking to Bifur, Kíli had spoken old Khuzdul. He knew that Bifur understood Westron quite well, but he had always spoken the ancient dwarven tongue to the friendly older dwarrow.

 

“There.” Bifur came up from below and pushed the wheel back to the center, where it aligned correctly. “That should do it.”

 

Kíli let the cart down. It stood by itself again. “Thank you, Bifur,” he said before turning to the old woman and switching to Westron. “The cart should last you until you can reach the city, but be careful how you load it; the hind axle is unstable.”

 

“Thank you, stranger.” The old woman bowed slightly before she lifted the children back on the old cart and continued her trek towards the city with the others.

 

“These should be the last from the southeastern hamlets.” A familiar voice made Kíli turn around to see that Brea had approached him. In full armor, with axes on her back, she was hard to distinguish from any of the male dwarves around her. She had shorn her beard the night before and removed all ornaments from her black hair; like many others of her generation she had taken the news of Thorin’s death very hard. Nevertheless she had thrown herself into the new task with all her strength.

 

“Good work, Brea,” Kíli said. Her long experience on the roads of Eriador had proven handy in many situations during the day. “Can you take your group ahead to help those closer by the gate? I will check with Boromir if we need to pick up more stragglers.”

 

Hours after a time that should have been evening, had there not been the perpetual darkness surrounding them, the last of the fleeing people made it through the gate of the city. Kíli came with one of the last groups that he had spotted during the ride back. When he came to the gate he saw Dwalin and Boromir standing on the battlements above the gauntlet. He heard Dwalin’s deep voice as he walked up to them. “Can’t you send them on to your western provinces, Boromir? They don’t really want to be here when the Siege begins, and they are additional mouths to reduce the city’s supplies and will be of little use once the fighting begins.”

 

“This is a hardy populace, Dwalin.” Boromir stood opposite of the older dwarf, his voice firm as they debated the issue. “And they are well prepared for what awaits them here.”

 

Dwalin barked a laugh, a hard, grim laughter devoid of any humor. “Prepared? Do you really believe that, Boromir? This is not Osgiliath where you only had the citadel to hold and a mile of ruins left and right. Nothing… _nothing_ can prepare your people for the horrors of a full siege, for catapults smashing houses and pyrobalistas sending fire over the walls, Drakhár throwing liquid fire barrels, Orcs and monsters storming the walls. Nothing can prepare them for that. Will they still stand when we lose the first wall and they see some of their people captured? Will their resolve hold out when they hear the screams of the captured rise from the Enemy camp? Will they stand when they realize what capture means? The Enemy knows you, and he will know that your people have yet to witness their own children being handed over to the Orcs for their sport.”

 

Kíli could feel Boromir tense and the anger uncoiling inside him. No one liked being told off, and Dwalin certainly had a knack for doing that. “Then we make sure that it does not happen, Dwalin,” he said firmly, hoping the old friend would understand the warning. “We keep all populace out of the ring we are fighting in, so they won’t be caught up on our retreat. Plan ahead how we get them out of the city and into the Mountains should we lose the fourth ring, because from then on, things will get truly bitter.”

 

“Dwalin has a point, Kíli.” Boromir’s voice was level, though he still was tense. “The Enemy will pour all the horrors they are capable of against this city. It is what we fought long to prevent…”

 

How much must he feel that it was a failing on his part now that the war finally reached the walls of the White City? Kíli knew that nothing could have prevented this day from coming, but that made it not any easier on those who had to bear the brunt of the war. He gently clasped Boromir’s arm. “And we still are fighting to prevent your people from perishing under the Shadow. What of the road whence we came? Could it be used to send your people to the Western Provinces?”

 

“Them,” Boromir’s frown deepened. “They are not very reliable, but maybe this one time the Western Provinces will be of some use. I’ll have Faramir send his Rangers to scout the mountain paths for the people and we will send them on immediately, before the Siege can reach us.” He turned to gesture Thoroniâr to join them.

 

The leader of the Tower Guard strode up the stairs to the walls. “Captain?” he asked.

 

“Send Faramir to me. I need his Rangers to scout the mountain road swiftly.” Boromir saw the frown on Thoroniâr’s face. It was not much, no more than a small creasing of the brows and a narrowing of the eyes, but he knew the man well enough to read the change of expression. “What is it?”

 

“Veryan reported to me an hour ago, saying that Lord Faramir vanished from the citadel. He in turn got report from Damrod, when Lord Faramir did not meet with the Rangers this morning.” Thoroniâr pointed up to the city. “I have the guard scour every nook and cranny of the city as we speak.”

 

A cold hand brushed against Boromir’s back. If the Enemy was smart they’d strike at the one advantage Minas Tirith had in this war: Faramir’s gift of foresight. If the Enemy had finally worked out the reason of their successes so far, they would try to kill Faramir. Or catch him. “Search all places in the city large enough for a Drakhár to land on, Thoron, and have a tight lock on the gate. Send Mablung to me, I have need of him.”

 

Kíli turned to Dwalin. “Get Bifur and return to the Undercity, search the place top to bottom. Let me know if you find anything.”

 

Called for by the city guard, Damrod arrived at the same moment. If the Ranger was tense, he hid it well. “My Lord, we did not begin searching immediately when Lord Faramir did not show up, assuming he had been held up by your father…” he began, but Boromir waved it off.

 

“The city guard will deal with that, Damrod. I need you to take your Rangers and scout the West Road, guide the fleeing people as far as Morningbell’s crossing and make sure they stay on their way to the Western Provinces. Then return to the city, by whatever hidden paths you can use.”

 

Damrod’s eyes widened slightly. “I was planning on taking a troop of my people back to Ithilien to scout out the Enemy. Once the main host has passed through, we should be able to find out a lot of things from their supply lines. We still have several outposts in Ithilien that might yet stand.”

 

Boromir could see the need for scouting the Enemy lines; they would need such knowledge desperately sooner or later. “Which Ithilien-born rangers do you have who could take that task instead?” he inquired. Faramir would have his hide for preferring Ithilien born and bred Rangers over those from other places, but in Boromir’s experience those who had grown up right under the Shadow’s wings were the hardiest survivors there were.

 

“Only Anarion and his group,” Damrod shrugged. “And I am loath to send him out. He lost half of his archers during that mad retreat from Osgiliath and he is…”

 

“Young,” Boromir knew that argument; it came up more and more frequently as the war had dredged on. He had long since given up on judging any man by age. Skill was what he needed, and Anarion had proven to have plenty of that. “Send Anarion to Ithilien. I trust him to find out what we need to know. Then take your men to help our people on the West Road.”

 

When Damrod left, Boromir leaned against the battlements, closing his eyes for a moment. Up till now there had been things to see to, things to plan that had allowed him to focus. Now that it was gone, the fear for Faramir welled up inside him. Where might he be? What could have happened?

 

“When was he last seen?” A deep voice spoke up from his side. He had half forgotten that Kíli was still there, his presence a calm in the middle of the chaos. “And where would he go… if he went on his own volition?”

 

Boromir opened his eyes and met Kíli’s gaze. His friend had just thrown a new thought into the search. “I saw him last night. He left while father and I were still talking; he sometimes does that when he wants to research something or has something occupying his mind.” Boromir’s eyes strayed to the citadel. With the day never having truly dawned, the nightfall was only a darkening of the skies and the white citadel stood like a beacon of light against the darkness, a bright spark flaring from the highest tower. Jerking from his position against the wall Boromir looked sharply at the Tower of Kings, now consciously seeing the light shine from the arched windows so high above the city. The Palantír, he had not even thought about the fact that there was one in the city, albeit he had a healthy respect for them since his confrontation with Saruman’s Palantír. “Kíli, come with me.” He hastened down the stairs from the battlements and towards the road to the citadel.

 

Thoroniâr, ever to know him before he said a word, had quickly two horses brought, so they could ride up the long road to the citadel. The hooves thundered over the flagstones of the winding street as the horses carried them through the seven rings and to the very gates of the citadel. The guards made room, recognizing Boromir, allowing them to ride right into the inner yards of the citadel. Beside him Kíli jumped off the horse, quickly assessing the yard for dangers. “You know where he might be?”

 

“I am almost sure.” Boromir led Kíli to the door of the Tower of Kings. How often had he seen his father and brother enter through this gate, to return exhausted, haunted and with knowledge that would allow them to plan ahead in this war? He had lost count of how often. This door had eaten away his father’s strength and shaped Faramir into the man he was today. Boromir would have given his life to spare them the burden they bore, for he had seen the price they paid for it. He pushed the door open and hastened up the long flight of stairs. He had been inside the Tower itself only for a few times; it was the realm of his father and brother, a place where he only came by rare invitation. Today he did not hesitate and neither did Kíli; his heavier steps rang out on the stairs behind him.

 

The door to the tower’s top room stood ajar and an eerie blue light fell from the room. Carefully Boromir pushed the door open. In the middle of the room was the stone table with the Palantír, the blue orb shining in a fierce, bright light, while Faramir lay slumped in the stone chair beside it. His hands had lost contact with the seeing stone, but he was unconscious. He did not react when Boromir touched his shoulder. The only result of his action was that his unconscious body slid from the chair and Boromir gently eased his brother to the ground.

 

Faramir was pale, his skin almost translucent, his eyes were wide open staring at something no one else could see and they were moving now and then. Boromir felt a tremor run through Faramir’s body, of strain or pain, he could not tell. “This should not be happening,” he said to Kíli, who had squatted down beside them. “He is not touching the stone any longer, but he does not wake.”

 

“His mind is not with us,” an older, sharper voice spoke from the door. Denethor stood there, a torch in hand. “His mind is still linked to the stone. That is why the Palantír is still alight.”

 

“How do we bring him back?” Boromir asked, still holding Faramir’s lifeless form close, like his physical presence could somehow protect his little brother. “There must be a way to help him.”

 

Denethor approached them, sitting down heavily in the stone chair. Never had Boromir seen his father so tired, so exhausted. “His mind is walking the spirit world, or is trapped there, Boromir. And for all my knowledge, I never had the gift to walk those paths. I could support your brother, anchor him when he used the stone, lend him strength, but I never had the gift of the sight, to touch the spirit world in that way. And now… Now he is beyond my reach.”

 

“The spirit world… like the Grey?” Boromir’s eyes went from his father to Kíli, who had risen and studied the Palantír with keen eyes. What he could see there was beyond Boromir. But at the question the dwarf turned to him.

 

“The elves claim that the Grey, as we dwarves call it, is akin to the Eälar ambar, the land beyond the physical form, which might indicate that what you call the spirit world is quite the same,” he replied, his eyes going forth and back between Faramir and the Palantír. “And as far as I know artifacts, I can tell that there is a… mesh between him and the Palantír as of now. Delving into the Grey and tapping into the stone itself might present a way to bring him back…”

 

“Can we do it?” Boromir asked, relieved that Kíli knew his way around artifacts and maybe could see a path to help Faramir. Once there was a path it could be followed, if one only truly set one’s mind to it.

 

“It is nothing you should ask of anyone,” Denethor said, his voice harsh. “I will assume our guest is an arcane smith – as the talent runs in his blood – to truly tap into the artifact, but by doing so he would risk his life, his soul to reach Faramir, not speaking of the dangers he’d encounter inside that world. And you, my son, lack any training to even try.”

 

“I’ll do it.” Kíli looked up at Denethor, his gaze calm and steady. “It can be done, dangerous though it might be. Boromir, the risk is that you will be pulled along with me. You have the gift – we both know that – and you shared a vision with me before… and you found me in the Grey.”

 

“Then we go together. Maybe thus we have a chance.” Boromir was not afraid of trying. He had walked the Grey to find Kíli and he would do it again to find his brother.

 

Denethor’s eyes surveyed them both sharply, as the old man sat up straight. “It is a great risk you both will take,” he said, his voice softening. “But… if it brings Faramir back…” For a moment Denethor’s stern façade gave room to a different expression as he looked at his youngest son.

 

The expression in Denethor’s eyes reminded Kíli of his brother, of the day Fíli had learned that Anvari had been poisoned, the day when Wulfregar had been lost in the peak… The worry, the heart-wrenching fear for their children was something the fathers of all races shared, it seemed. “It can be done,” he said firmly. “And we will need your help too. For we both will not be able to act in this world while our minds walk the Grey.”

 

“No one will harm you here,” Denethor said. “And no one except my family ever comes to this Tower. I would tell a returning King to wait if I knew your lives were hanging in the balance.”

 

Kíli shook his head. “You might be our help to get back,” he said. “I will close my fist, once we begin. When you see my hand open fully, drop your torch right onto my palm.”

 

“Kíli…” Boromir knew that Kíli hated brands. He had retained some healthy dislike of them from the events in Goblin Town.

 

“It will jerk me back, Boromir.” Kíli met his gaze, dark eyes asking him to trust him on this. “Our lives might depend on it.”

 

They remained kneeling beside Faramir, with Boromir still holding onto his brother. He saw Kíli close his eyes to focus, to go inside and calm his mind. Boromir could feel the calm, solid and firm like a slab of rock, reach him too. He accepted it, let it reach him, and he tried to relax his mind just as he had on that day in Lothlórien. And around them the world faded.

 

TRB

 

They stood in a dark hallway, black walls surrounding them like the Shadow itself given form. It was cold, a heavy silence stretched over the hall, like a blanket stifling all feelings. Boromir looked around; there was a hallway behind them and one before them. Kíli was with him, though his appearance was slightly different here, like a change Boromir could not yet try to understand. Older and edgier, but the same dwarrow all the same.

 

“Where are we?” Kíli’s voice was a soft whisper in the silence of these halls. He raised his hand to touch the wall of the tower, but it melted away from his fingers.

 

Boromir shook his head, he had no idea all the same. A scream ripped through the silence, a pained, tormented scream coming from somewhere above them. Faramir! Boromir knew with absolute certainty that it was his brother he had heard. Without thinking he chose his path, heading along the hall, or was the hall melting before him? He did not know, but there was a set of stairs leading upwards.

 

Following the stairs up and further up they reached the top of the Tower. Only now Boromir recognized Orthanc, the dark Tower of Saruman. The Palantír… What kind of trap had been hidden inside the stone? When he looked up he saw his brother. Faramir’s form was suspended midair, held in place by bands of fire, chaining him to the very jags of Orthanc, his body withering in pain… Or was it something else tormenting him?

 

Their surroundings melted and suddenly they were not at the top of the tower anymore, but deep below it, and Faramir was still there, suspended over a pit of fire, chalices of black flame lining the walls. Another figure emerged from the Shadows, a warrior in dark armor, looking around confused. “Boromir! What in the name of the Night Eternal are you doing here?”

 

Boromir’s eyes widened as he recognized Shakurán. The Easterling should not be here. Or was he even here at all? “I could ask you the same,” he growled, his eyes going back to Faramir. “And what you are doing to my brother?”

 

“Your brother?” Genuine surprise reflected in Shakurán’s voice as he looked around, like he was only now seeing this place as it was. Then a grim expression settled on his face. “I see what you mean. This won’t be easy.”

 

There was it again, the sincerity Boromir had experienced in Shakurán before. By now he was sure he knew when the Easterling was honest and when he was playing games. And this certainly was not a game to him. “So it is not your doing?”

 

Shakurán cast him a glare. “It is a vision and for all the years of fighting you, I doubt I’d welcome you to my dreams,” he said dryly. “Look around you Boromir. What does this place remind you of?”

 

“Orthanc?” Boromir suggested, his eyes going back to Faramir, whose body had stilled in the moment, like the torment had eased at least for a little while.

 

“Blessed ignorance!” Shakurán spat, pointing at the dark chalices at the wall. “Did you already forget the temple on Númenor?” He raised his hands and some of the black flames seemed to almost bend in his direction.

 

The black Temple of Númenor… Now that Shakurán said it, Boromir saw it too. The darkness, the walls written in a writing not quite legible, the deep, echoing silence... the dread. Had Orthanc always been a dark place, even corrupting a wizard in the end? Was this too a black sanctuary? “We need to free Faramir,” he said, focusing back on the task. “If you know how to help with that…”

 

“I should be able to cross the pit of flame and free him,” Shakurán replied. “It is a trial I have not yet undergone, but one I often wished to be allowed for.”

 

There was a cold hand brushing against Boromir. Saving Faramir would mean another step down that dark path Shakurán was following. There had been times in the past when Boromir almost believed that the Easterling wanted a way out, but had none. Now he’d even push further into the dark. He looked for Kíli. Maybe his friend knew another solution for the flames, but Kíli was not there. “Where is Kíli?”

 

“Your dwarf ally? I never saw him in here. Maybe his mind is caught by something else,” Shakurán replied, looking around. “It might even be that this place does not allow one of his kind to enter.”

 

It was a decision that Boromir never wished to have to make. Faramir was here, Kíli somewhere else, both in danger. “Get Faramir,” he told Shakurán. “If you truly have a way across the pit. I will find Kíli after.” He had to make the reasonable decision, do what was possible first, then go for what was hard and hopefully the impossible would be the result.

 

Shakurán approached the pit. The Easterling did not try to evade the flames licking up from the deep, nor the steel spikes that rose from the pit at irregular intervals. He simply walked on them, never flinching, never hesitating, never fearing. Boromir could sense the darkness amass around Shakurán like a cloak, like a mantle of strength, the blessing of a power that would only bless those who could look at it fearlessly. He did not know how long he had watched, how long Shakurán’s endless path across the pit was. But eventually he did reach Faramir and cut him loose. Once freed of the chains, Faramir stood shakily, but Light he stood and was aware. Boromir reached for him and suddenly they both stood on the outer side of the pit, with Shakurán still at the center. The Easterling turned to them. “The next time we meet, you better kill me swiftly, Gondorian,” he said, before raising his hands to the flames.

 

Boromir tried to support Faramir, not knowing if this was even possible in this place, if anything of this was real or if all the world had faded to mist. “We need to find Kíli. Can you hang on, Fari?” he asked him, as the room, the black sanctuary suddenly melted behind them and through swirling mists they found themselves in an unfamiliar landscape.

 

“I can hold out, brother.” Faramir’s voice was hoarse, shaken, but he stood and his eyes were clear. “It was too great a risk you took to find me.” He looked around, taking in the landscape: a barren hillside, hard rocks shaping a valley with a lake.

 

“If we are not willing to take risks to find our friends, what kind of friends are we?” Boromir replied, looking around, now slowly recognizing the landscape. “Azanulbizar, Dimril Dale,” he said softly recognizing the place now. “Some part of Kíli must still be tied to this grim valley.”

 

“Then we better find him,” Faramir said, his eyes searching the grounds and the sight again guiding him towards the lake down in the vale. It was a simple mountain lake, trapped between the huge grey rocks that formed the feet of the Misty Mountains. Even while the skies were dim, the water of the lake shone brightly, like a dark mirror.

 

When Boromir came close to the lake a feeling of dread, of immediate danger settled upon him. Something was not right. Kíli was here, and yet he was not, trapped in a way they could not see. The lake… The waters of Kheled-zaram were said to show visions. Had Kíli tried to look to find his way? When Boromir’s eyes strayed over the surface water he saw shadows in the reflection, like people moving under the water.

 

_Suddenly the picture became clearer and he saw a battlefield: corpses piling everywhere. The mountain valley under the high peak of Erebor had become a field of death, black and red. Red with blood and black with corpses, Orcs and Wargs, Dwarves, Elves and Men all claimed by the same grim reaper. Snow fell unfettered by pain and loss, uncaring _for those who had thrown themselves into the Orcs advance before they_   could smash whatever people remained on this side of Mirkwood. On a high hill, Raven Hill, lay more corpses than anywhere else. Atop the piles were three that Boromir recognized: Fíli and Kíli, both lying in their own blood, and with them Thorin, barely alive. The dying King reached out, trying to grasp their cold hands, his grip failing. He only fleetingly touched Kíli’s hand. “I wish at least one of you… could have lived…”_

_“ _Fili and Kili had fallen defending him with shield and body, for he was their mother’s elder brother.”__

Boromir did not know to whom the voice belonged, to what scribe recording the events, and he had no wish to know. It was not real and it wouldnever be real, no matter if someone, some master of fate or some almighty wizard thought this was the path. He focused deeply on the bond, reaching for Kíli, calling out for him from wherever he might be now. And he felt the answer. Mahal knew from where, but suddenly the familiar presence of Kíli was with him again, the Mithril chain linking their fate pulling them together anew. For a moment he could see Kíli standing alone on the other side of the lake, surrounded by echoes, or where they ghosts? But the vision waned and the next moment Kíli was with them, a deeply focused expression in his eyes.

 

The next moment a fiery pain jerked through them, like a piece of coal burning into their hands and the world around them again faded to mists, before they were thrust back into their bodies, waking from the dream at the top of the Tower of Kings.

TRB

 

Miles to the East Shakurán rose from his vision at the dark temple. He did not need to look down at his arms to know the patterns carved into his skin were almost completely filled with black. He could feel the dark energy seeping slowly through the patterns, ready to be unleashed, ready to transform his soul into a sacrifice that would bring horror and fear to the hearts of his Enemies. He slowly rose. There was no stiffness, nor exhaustion he could feel. He was fresh, strong and ready to face battle. He thought of what had happened in the vision and he wondered if Boromir had understood what he had said. Without paying any further heed to the Guardian of the Dark Flame who stared at him in obvious confusion if not envy, Shakurán walked from the temple and out into the dread city. The armies to cross the river were amassing, Osgiliath was already taken. Their time had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* Don’t forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!!


	30. A candle against the night

Boromir felt his body shake. It was from neither pain nor exhaustion – at least he did not believe he was that tired yet – but something inside him was still shivering from the vision he had seen inside the Grey. The pictures that had risen from the eerie otherworldly version of Kheled-zaram were still clawing at him.

 

_“ _Fili and Kili had fallen defending him with shield and body, for he was their mother’s elder brother.”__

What had he seen? A dream? A nightmare more likely. An illusion? A horror conjured up from his mind, combined out of memories of his two lives? An echo of what might have been? Somewhere deep inside he felt like he too had been dead in that dream. Death, the cold hand of dying alone had been so strongly felt over what he had seen.

 

“Boromir, are you alright?” A deep voice cut through the haze and he felt a familiar strong hand on his shoulder. Kíli was still kneeling beside them, and though he was pale, with deep rings marring his eyes, he was alive and seemed more worried about him than about anything else. His other hand was curled up slightly, but Boromir could see traces of a burn there, the brand that had yanked them back here.

 

“Alive.” Boromir drew in a slow breath, feeling Faramir finally stirring. His little brother was alive and had returned with them. “I think I understand now why the magics of the Elder Times are the most dangerous and wondrous thing…” His voice trailed off when he saw Kíli pale at the words, but whatever the dwarf had wanted to say was interrupted when Faramir sat up, trying to steady himself against the hard stone floor.

 

“Faramir!” Denethor had joined them, gently helping Faramir to sit steadily. The old man’s voice was fraught with worry as he sought his youngest son’s gaze. “Are you… are you all right?”

 

Faramir’s eyes revealed a haunted, deeply hurt quality when he looked up before it vanished behind a grimmer expression. “How could I be?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “I foolishly endangered my brother and one of the few of the allies we have… And for what? An answer that I do not understand.” There was such an amount of loathing and self-depreciation in his voice that Boromir all but wanted to hug his brother, to tell him it would be all right somehow. His glance found Kíli’s gaze, seeing the same warm compassion there that he had come to associate with his friend.

 

“We are all alive and unharmed, so it wasn’t that bad,” the Dwarf said warmly.

 

Boromir lightly clapped Faramir’s shoulder. “If you keep going like this, you’ll infect me with that whole seeing thing.” He tried a joke, to take some of the tension away from his brother. “But, Fari, what happened to never enter a trance like that alone?”

 

Faramir looked from one to the other disbelievingly, his eyes still echoing a world of pain. “I… I got you trapped inside a hoard of darkness, Boromir! And I cannot even begin to guess what kind of place it was Prince Kíli was trapped in.”

 

“And I would still walk into any hoard of darkness to find you,” Boromir said fiercely. “You got the worst of it, Fari. I just had the unexpected company of Shakurán.” He did not speak of the other vision. Whatever it had been, it had not been Faramir’s fault.

 

“You should listen to your brother.” Kíli had gotten to his feet, ready to give the family some space. “He usually is right when it comes to such things.”

 

Faramir looked up, shaking off some of the stupor that had still been upon him. “And you have known my brother for much longer than you admit, Prince Kíli,” he said, a question echoing in his voice. “Ever since he returned I could almost see him twice, even with my waking eyes.”

 

A noise down by the Tower’s door interrupted any possible answer. The bang announced that the door had been pushed open with considerable force. “I do not care whether it is unwanted for, guardsman.” They could hear Veryan of Dol Amroth’s voice down there. “But the message needs to reach the Captain immediately.”

 

Boromir pushed to his feet. The shakes had passed and he felt he could keep going. “I better go and see to this,” he said to his father, seeing the old Steward’s curt nod. Kíli joined him as they headed down the stairs, meeting Veryan halfway up. Boromir did not stop, but kept walking. “Your report, Veryan.”

 

“We managed to send most of the people out of the city and towards the Western Provinces, Captain.” Veryan fell into step with him as they hastened down the stairs. “But the Enemy army has passed the old rampart and is crossing the Pelennor. Forays of Orc groups and Haradrim riders have come within the city walls less than an hour ago. Boromir, the Watchtowers report seeing five marching columns bearing down on us! They must have emptied all of Minas Morgul to come after us.”

 

“It is only the beginning, Veryan,” Boromir replied, not surprised to hear these tidings. “We will probably have half of the Easterling Empire’s armies in the field before long. Have the third banner gather near the posterns. I will need them to create trouble amongst the Enemy scouts, to slow their encampment down. As for the first ring…”

 

High up in the Tower stood Denethor with Faramir watching the three figures cross the yard. Faramir still could hardly stand, but his eyes were focused on the vanishing figures in the nightly yard. “I could not come to you with this,” he said softly. “How could I bring such pain to you, father? You just had him back.”

 

Denethor reached for his son’s shoulder and gave him a light, one-armed hug. “You must let your brother go, Faramir,” he replied. “The winds of destiny have reached him and whether they will carry him to greatest heights or plunge him into the deepest abyss, we cannot follow him. This I have known for many years.”

 

“You knew?” Faramir’s voice was startled as he looked at the old man beside him. How often had he underestimated his father and his knowledge?

 

“I had four decades to research the mark your brother was born with.” Denethor pushed a few pale streaks of hair from his face, straightening up. “It was not easy; none of all the writings of ancient Númenor mentioned such a portent. But then… I came across the answer by accident. At my behest ambassador Rivorien at Erebor had asked for permission to have the Chronicle of the Dragon copied and Erebor’s chief librarian had been most helpful with that. In the book I found my clues: the mark, its bearers and the reference linking it to the great heroes of Durin’s Line. I kept my silence, Faramir, for fate will be disturbed by overeager words at ill times, but I knew that whatever his fate, Boromir’s path was that of a legend, and legends… legends die, Faramir. From that day I knew I had to let him go, to accept that I would lose him in the end. He may be the legend to save us in the middle of this storm, but…”

 

Faramir bowed his head when the full impact of the words washed over him, when he understood which silent burden his father had carried all those countless years. And he knew this was not the time to wail, or weep. It was a time to stand, to fight. “What can we do?” he asked softly.

 

Denethor’s smile reflected the pride he felt for his youngest son. “We need to learn the Enemy plans, Faramir, who their captains are and what tactics they are planning on. Can you… can you still do it?”

 

The younger man met his eyes, and while there was an echo of fear in Faramir’s gaze, he had it under control. “I will do whatever is necessary.”

 

“We will,” Denethor replied. “I won’t let you try it alone.”

 

TRB

 

The path wound around the last bend of the dark valley. It was still visible between the stones and barren trees, like it had been trodden in the countless years that no man had dared to approach the Dwimorberg. Aragorn hardly felt the chill wind that fell from the mountain’s flank; the cold radiating from the Dwimorberg was one that cut deeper than the cold of the wind. It was an echo that crept into his very bones. Somehow this place reminded him of the barrow-downs of his homeland in the North; they too were ancient graves of men, cursed and haunted. Only their curse originated with the Witch King, while the curse resting on the Dwimorberg had been spoken by Aragorn’s own ancestor.

 

The gateway into the Mountain was simple, no more than a primitively carved tunnel allowing entrance. Aragorn frowned. He knew history well; Elrond had educated him on his family’s history extensively and he had spoken of the Mountain Men and other Northern tribes who had sworn to Isildur and later betrayed him. At no time he had spoken of an underground place of any sorts. Yet this was the path that would lead to the stone of Erech, where the vows had been given, and where the vows could be called upon.

 

Slowly Aragorn entered the dark tunnel, icy air brushing against his skin as he left the sunlight behind. He could hardly see three steps ahead, even if he raised his torch. Everything else was veiled in shadows.

_The way is shut._

A voice whispered in the darkness, like a hiss originating in one invisible corner and echoing into the halls ahead. Aragorn walked on, his step becoming firmer the more distance he gained from the door. The tunnel widened towards a small cave, filled with sand and a few bones.

 

_The way is shut._

_It was made by those who are Dead._

_And the Dead keep it._

 

The voice sounded angry, twisted by hate, or so he believed. Or was it simply anger at the intrusion into a realm that was not meant for the living? “Need and haste bring me here,” Aragorn said out loud, his voice echoing into the darkness ahead. “Haste to protect those you once swore to fight for.”

 

He passed through the other exit of the cave and suddenly stood in a wide hall. A stone bridge spanned a deep ravine towards a wide cavern hall, filled with stone buildings. An underground city, well hidden in the deeps of the Dwimorberg. He had never heard of such a place, but now that he saw it, his heart filled with wonder.

 

“And what need would compel you to seek what is the Dead’s alone?” a deep voice asked him. Beside the bridgehead a warrior had appeared. His form was pale, like shaped of white mist and deep grey fogs. He was shorter than Aragorn, just reaching to his shoulder, with broad shoulders and a wild mane of now pale hair framing a square face with a strong jaw-line. He looked like he must have looked in life, even the armor, which looked like a strange combination of leather and iron to Aragorn, and the weapons were visible.

 

“There is no more pressing need than mine,” he replied, approaching the bridge. “Because it is the world’s need. The Shadow is rising and it is marching to bring doom to the world of Men.”

 

_The way is shut._

A voice hissed somewhere. The pale apparition began to walk beside him. “Many have claimed that in years beyond counting, stranger,” he said. “Always a Shadow rises, always there is a war… Ages were spent fighting and wars have swept away the ashes of bygone ages. What makes your war different from them? Why do you think that your war is of any more importance of all before and after?”

 

“Because this time it is upon us to safeguard this world.” Aragorn studied the ghostly figure with him. Who was he? Who had he been? “If the Shadow wins this war, there will be no rescue, no army from beyond the sea to deliver us, no miracle of the light to stem the tides of darkness. We, we are the stone that has to break the tide and the spark that brings forth the light.”

 

_The way is shut._

_It was made by those who are Dead._

_And the Dead keep it._

 

“You call upon the Dead to preserve the world of the living?” the ghost asked him, his voice echoing wonder. “You truly believe we care for the living world any longer?”

 

They had crossed the bridge and stood at the entrance to the city, but the gate was closed. Aragorn turned fully to the warrior, walking up so close he could stare down at him. “They say that you worshipped the Dark Lord in the nameless years of the Second Age, and if he wins this war – if he rises to new power – all of you will be his slaves, servants to his will. And his punishments for betrayal far surmount all that my House could heap of you, ghost. So chose with whom do you wish to cast your fate in the end.”

 

For long moments their eyes held each other’s gaze and Aragorn saw pride, old anger and fierce will war in the ghostly warriors eyes, before the pale warrior suddenly stepped back and bowed deeply. “The way lies open for you, my Lord,” he said, as the door of the city opened. “May the others find you worthy. I have made my choice.” His form faded and in that moment Aragorn saw more of his kind with him, thousands that vanished away into the darkness.

 

“What was your name?” Aragorn could not hold back the question. He wanted to know who his strange companion had been, what name history might have given him.

 

“Raidán of the Mountain People,” came the answer somewhere from the shadows, only a whisper barely above the silence.

 

_The way is shut._

_It was made by those who are Dead._

_And the Dead keep it._

 

An angry voice screeched somewhere in the darkness, but Aragorn did not pay it any heed. He turned towards the door of the city and passed under the great arch of stone. With watchful eyes he studied the city around him. It seemed like no age had touched the buildings carved in stone. Was this the city whence Raidán had come? Had this been his home until an ill-fated oath turned him into an apparition?

 

“Haste compels you and need drives you and yet you know little of those upon whom you are calling,” a new voice, clear like a clarion on a summer’s day, became audible from a small stair ahead. “Much like your ancestor.”

 

Aragorn saw another ghostly figure stand there as he looked ahead. He was taller than Raidán had been, slender and clad in simple leather armor, with a bow on his back. His face was lean and carried an expression of sadness. “Little is remembered beyond the story of the Oathbreakers,” Aragorn replied. “Who are you?” He wanted to know them, even if it was only to preserve more than a twisted memory.

 

“Ivár of the River Folk,” the ghost replied. “You call upon us in the darkness of another age, but you do not know whom you are calling. And, like your ancestor, you care little.”

 

“The River folk?” Aragorn frowned. “So it was not only the Mountain People who swore to Isildur?” How many people had his ancestor encountered when he founded the Northern Kingdom? Why was so little chronicled of those early years after the fall of Númenor?

 

The ghost gestured him to follow and they walked through the silent city. “Many of our people have lived in the wild lands, far from the West and its wars,” Ivár said. “The Shadow was long, the Night Riders haunted our villages, but the wilds were far and wide for us to wander. In years without name we found a place in these mountains, the stone that is no stone, and here we founded a place of hiding, a meeting place, a place where we would come to trade, to speak and hold council. No matter how far our peoples wandered, where we made our homes, we never lost our link to the others, because we would find them again in this city.”

 

Aragorn could not begin to guess of how many long years the ghost spoke. Had Menfolk survived and thrived in the shadowy wilds of these lands even before Morgoth himself had fallen and was driven from the world? They reached a large circular plaza. It had nothing of the splendor Aragorn had seen in the great cities of the South; the grey stone had been trowelled, but not polished and there were neither wells nor statues to adorn the plaza. There was only a huge stone mural, separated into thirteen separate sections, each covered with a complex pattern of lines, none quite the same, some even marked with forms of writing Aragorn had never seen before. “Thirteen… thirteen tribes of Men who came here?” he asked Ivár.

 

“Aye.” Ivár walked to one of the sections, his hand tracing the lines. “This records the history and wanderings of the River People. Do you see these marks?” He pointed at several places where the lines branched from a complex pattern into a thinner one to later become broader again.

 

“You were diminished?” Aragorn tried to make sense of this. Deep down he felt that it was something important, something he _needed_ to understand.

 

“The Night Riders would come and drag away our children, and the children would return as Night Riders to take even more. Those who bowed might be spared, those who hid might survive. Others died, their blood tainting the River.” Ivár’s hand traced to the last of the thinner patterns near the end of the tableau. “My own brother…” His voice broke off in a whisper.

 

“He was taken?” Until now Aragorn had believed that Ivár was speaking of the First Age and of Morgoth’s ravages, but now he began to understand that it was the Second Age Ivár spoke off. But during Sauron’s captivity in Númenor, his time as Annatar in Ost-in-Edhil, he could not have been behind these things, not directly at least. And then the answer came to him. “The Easterling Empire, they took your brother.”

 

“The Night Riders, the Warriors of the Night Eternal, aye.” Ivár bowed his head. “His name was Avár. He tried to defend our mother, though he was only small. But they just laughed and one of them dragged him into the saddle before himself and said he had spirit… When Avár came back, he was one of them.”

 

Slowly Aragorn looked around in the circle of records; all of those tableaus bore the same marks, the same cuts into their lines. At different times and with different intensity, but they all bore the same history of loss. “When you refused to fight, you refused to fight your own brethren, your own sons…” he whispered, realizing the burden that must have lain upon those who had broken the ancient Oath. He turned around and found Ivár still standing beside the mural. “But those you lost are long dead. They rest at peace in Mandos’ guard and have left behind the worries and tears of this world. Stand now and you will the spare others to suffer a similar fate you did, fight and avenge your people against the Shadow.”

 

There was a sad smile in Ivár’s eyes and he bowed. “There is no vengeance for us, my Lord,” he said, pointing towards another bridge appearing out of nothing. “Your path lies open. May the others hear you as I do. I have made my choice.” And as he vanished Aragorn saw thousands of ghosts with him, pale shades vanishing into the night.

 

_The way is shut._

_It was made by those who are Dead._

_And the Dead keep it._

 

The disembodied voice all but howled in the shadows. Aragorn took a last glance at the simple plaza and the history it recorded. If this city survived the end of the age and if he did too, he would find a scholar to come here and write down the forgotten history recorded in the stones. They deserved to be remembered.

 

He walked towards the bridge, another stone arch spanning a mighty chasm towards a cave mouth leading outside. Aragorn blinked as he stepped into the sunlight of a small, hidden valley. It was a rough vale, nestled between the peaks of the White Mountains, holding nothing but short grass and a row of stone graves; ancient cairns, half overgrown by grass, barrows that reminded him much of his homeland.

 

“It is strange that you Sea Kings ended up burying your dead in much the same manner than we did with our heroes.” As he turned around Aragorn saw another warrior, wearing chainmail armor, a sword and a harp on his back, stand by the burial mounds. His pale form was clearly visible in the sunlight, like persistent mist not giving way to spring’s first rays.

 

“I thought the inborn Kings would be burned in death?” Aragorn recalled a long-past discussion with Denethor in Gondor about that topic. The young man had been fascinated by the old Kings and their burial rites, finding a strange kinship in their fragmented history. He almost forgot his other question; it was easy to forget that amongst the ghosts. “Who are you?”

 

“Heóstar of the Windfolk,” the warrior introduced himself. “And it was not our Kings that were burned, it was the Kings of the Westland-friends, of those whom your kind claimed to recognize by the tongue they spoke.”

 

Aragorn could make sense of that. Upon their forays into Arda during the Second Age, the Númenorans had now and then encountered groups of Menfolk who spoke the same western tongue as them and – believing them to be survivors of the Edain – had treated them friendly. Another gap just opened before him, just in the words Heóstar had chosen. “But not your kind? How come I understand you now, if we do not share a common tongue?”

 

“We are the Dead. Our tongue is of any tongues, our voice is of any voices, for all that lives must die in the end. And to the valley of the Dead you have come, Heir of Isildur. Here your ancestor came, to an ancient site of peace, to challenge our leaders, and here he slew them.”

 

Slowly Aragorn approached the barrows, a dozen in a row, piled from the same dark Mountain stone. “So Isildur won your loyalty on the blade’s edge?” It was not unheard of that a duel of leaders would decide such things, that the followers of a defeated King would swear to the victor.

 

“He won our submission here.” Heóstar’s ghostly hand traced over the stones of one cairn. “Alric was young. He had followed his father, who had died in the winter storms. Honor demanded Alric to fight, but he stood no chance; he was only a warrior of barely seventeen summers against a seasoned fighter.” There was a melodious quality to Heóstar’s voice that Aragorn wondered if he heard something that might be part of a Dirge. But then Heóstar turned back to him. “And thus Isildur gained our submission. We had learned how to bow our heads in the long, lone years.”

 

Something that Ivár had said came back to Aragorn, about those who had bowed themselves and might be spared. “To you he was no different from the Shadow, another conqueror enforcing your submission, and you gave him as much loyalty as you gave the Shadow.” All histories claimed that the Oathbreakers had done as Ulfang and his sons had done in the First Age and turned back to their true loyalties, but standing at the feet of the silent cairns, Aragorn understood that a far more powerful tragedy had played out here. Torn between forces trying to force them into submission, these people had tried to survive.

 

And suddenly he recalled one of his conversations with Boromir back during the journey. _“The most terrible thing is understanding that the Enemy’s face can be that of a monster or just that of a man just like yourself,”_ the Captain of Gondor had said. _“A man fighting for his people, for his beliefs and ultimately with no less honor than you. Where does this leave us? In war.”_

 

It had been the tragedy of Men from the beginning. Where the Elves had stern punishments for those who had killed elfkind, where banishment from the Light had been the price for those Elves who slaughtered their own kind, where the dwarves – while certainly capable of killing one of their kind – shied away in horror from the idea of brother making war on brother, Menfolk had been torn apart in the conflicts of the world from the beginning. If under the Shadow, or with the Elves, or simply trying to survive in the middle, they had become armies on both sides, fighting and killing for the cause and in the end tearing apart those who wanted no part of it.

 

“If there truly is to be an Age of Men, then we need to heal this rift,” Aragorn said softly. “Then we need to bring back those we lost along the way, to become one nation again.” He did not know if it was even possible, if there was such a thing as hope for them. It would take countless generations to try and bring peace to their warring nation. But maybe… maybe this was the true reason for the Age of Men, to finally heal the wounds the earlier age had dealt them, the chance to make their own path.

 

When he looked up again, he saw Heóstar standing beside another cave mouth leading out of the valley. “If you truly believe so, my Lord, then I will follow. Your path lies open. May the others find you. I have made my choice.”

 

Twelve gateways, twelve faces. The ghosts found him in ruined buildings and on the heights of the mountains, by a dark pond in a steep vale and under the branches of a Weeping Willow Tree. Keldarn, of the Hill People, who had fled with his people from the Night Riders in the East, Earcal of the Wood People, whose people had been hiding from Night Riders and Elves in much of the same way, Halward of the Rock people, who had fled the Misty Mountains with his people to escape the war of Dwarves and Orcs… Their names, their faces and their history formed the pattern of an almost forgotten age.

 

When finally Bordán of the Reed People bowed and made room for Aragorn, the angry voice in the caves was screaming and screeching like a mad spirit.

 

_The way is shut._

_It was made by those who are Dead._

_And the Dead keep it._

 

Aragorn stepped out of a cave again and onto a crossroads of passes high in the mountains, and in the middle of the crossroads it stood: a black stone pillar, engraved with the story of Isildur’s conquest and with the Oath of submission sworn here. Before the pillar stood a thirteenth ghostly figure. Armored and with sword in hand he reminded Aragorn much of a Dúnadan, but darker, with a shadow over him that he could not explain.

 

 _“No matter what you promised them – my vow you will never have,”_ the ghostly figure announced. _“Nor shall you have my name. You will die here, like all others who came before.”_

 

Aragorn raised Anduril. The sword shone in his hand. “I came for those who are willing to follow, not for a traitor of my own kind,” he said grimly. He did not know how such a dark Númenoran had come to be amongst the Oathbreakers, but who knew what corrupted Númenorans had done amongst Arda’s menfolk prior to Elendil’s landing?

 

The Ghost King raised his blade against Aragorn. “The way is shut!” he bellowed.

 

Aragorn raised Anduril and parried the ghostly blade, his eyes shining in the light of the sword. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur and I call upon you in the name of the oath you swore.”

 

“No, never!” the Ghost King howled. “The way is shut! The way is shut!”

 

Suddenly familiar figures appeared before Aragorn. Raidán and Ivár appeared, Heóstar followed with Keldarn and Earcal next, until all twelve stood between Aragorn and the Ghost King.

 

_The way is shut._

Raidán spoke, drawing his sword.

 

_It was made by those who are Dead._

Ivár followed, bending his bow.

 

_And the Dead keep it._

Heóstar drew his blade.

 

_The way is shut._

 

Keldarn grabbed his two axes.

 

_Until the time comes._

Earcal loaded his crossbow.

 

_Until the One comes to call upon us._

Their voices rang out in unison as they turned their weapons on the Ghost King. The pale figure shrieked, parrying the first few attacks, but he was swiftly overpowered by the twelve. His figure melted with an unearthly screech to never be heard in this day or age again. The twelve fighters turned to Aragorn, kneeling one after the other, while behind them appeared their armies, foot-warriors and riders, swordsmen and archers: twelve tribes of Men, ready to fight.

 

Seeing them kneel to him Aragorn felt a lump rise in his throat and his heart beat against his ribs like it would break his chest. He still did not know how they could see that King in him, the one who would bring the world of Men back together. But they believed in him and strangely enough, he believed in them. Together they would be the torch to burn the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* Don’t forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!!


	31. Rise from the shadows

The screams of the Orcs were drowning out the battle-drums at times, when the mass of black bodies threw itself against the defenders again; a wave of wild beasts, cutting, slashing and clawing at all that stood in their path. Where one fell, three more followed. Their howls rose and fell as they were whipped into a frenzy and left loose.

 

Three days, Boromir thought, as he led his battered reinforcements to what once had been the weaver’s row in the upper first ring, three days of Orcs running against the walls of the white city, an unrelenting force never ceasing, never giving in. Their corpses littered the streets, filled the yards and all but blocked the heavily battered main gates and the gauntlet behind. None of the wells in the lower city would be safe to use for years to come with all the bodies of friend and foe fallen into the deep shafts.

 

“There they are, and not one bit smarter than before,” Kíli growled, deftly jumping on a heavy stone block that a catapult had tossed into the road, forcing the Orcs to attack him from an odd angle. His blades cut through the first of them. He kicked another down and he landed close to Boromir, who stabbed in, more out of reflex than anything else. Without even thinking Boromir chose his position beside the block. Whatever Orcs tried to get past Kíli ran into him.

 

Steel screeched on steel, sparks sizzled through the air and stinking corpses fell into the soiled row. The white stone of the city had long since become besmirched with the black fumes of flames and the dark blood of the Orcs. Boromir fought almost without thinking, his blade cleaving through the air. Each stab and thrust and jab meant another falling Orc. He knew he should be exhausted, he knew he should feel pain in his torn muscles, but he did not. He felt nothing; no pain, no fear and no exhaustion. He just cut his way through the Orcs like through blades of grass.

 

Beside him Kíli fought in much the same manner, maybe a tad slower at times, but with a fierce brutality that made more than up for it. Kíli had to be tired, he rationalized. Thanks be to Mahal for dwarven endurance, for his own troops were definitely wearing down too quickly. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw his reinforcements all but trapped between two storming groups of Orcs. He turned to charge at the Orcs, knowing Kíli was with him. It took no words, they worked in perfect unison. Kíli spotted an opponent, Boromir cut him down. He saw another one coming close, only to see him fall from Kíli’s blades.

 

The moment they had freed up their men, he gestured down the row. “Forward, Veryan needs us in the crocker’s yard!” He took point along with Kíli and the others followed, if somewhat slower.

 

When they came down into the crocker’s yard, a square lined by workshops and furnaces, Boromir saw Veryan and what remained of the defenders pushed back to the entrance of the girdler’s lane. He still kept the Orcs bottled up in the square, but he had been seriously losing ground. Boromir could see the Swan Knight leading his badly reduced men at the bottleneck entrance of the alley. He fought first rank, and made the Orcs pay for coming too close to his two-handed sword. Boromir saw it approvingly; Veryan was a good man and certainly did not disappoint. But it was time to break him out of there. “Let Kíli and I break their ranks, then mop them up,” he ordered his men, before he went to attack.

 

The Orcs did not fully realize they were being attacked from behind until the first five lay dead in the row and Boromir beheaded a sixth, while Kíli gutted two that had come into his back. It was like a rush, a whirlwind of clashing blades, falling bodies and more blood. There was no end to it and if Boromir was honest, he did not want it to come to an end, not with the rush carrying him like the wings of a storm. Kíli’s sabres broke under an Orc axe. The dwarf ducked, rolling over the ground. Boromir swiftly beheaded the axe wielding Orc, seeing Kíli come up with another sword in hand, picked up from a fallen man: a Gondorian arming sword. In the hands of the dwarf it became a full longsword. In the middle of coming up Kíli ducked between two Orcs, then whirled around and gutted both, sending them down howling. Boromir smiled; he’d love to know how Kíli was doing this trick. It was so fast and light on the feet, that he doubted it was a dwarven sword-form.

 

“Veryan!” The last Orcs were down, and they had a moment to breathe. “How badly is the other side doing?” Boromir could see the Swan Knight was injured, the silver harness with the engraved swan marred by blood, but Veryan did neither falter nor betray his exhaustion.

 

“Not good, Captain. Dwalin is still keeping them blocked up between the fisherman’s market and the old market row, but I doubt he can hold out much longer.” His keen blue eyes sought Boromir’s gaze. “The men are exhausted and we are fighting a losing battle here. This ring is lost.”

 

Was he imagining things or was Veryan’s voice taking an almost pleading note? No, Boromir decided, Veryan would never plead. He had too much backbone for that. But still… he talked sense, much as he might dislike it. He lightly reached for the other man’s shoulder. “Don’t fear, my friend, I won’t sacrifice our people needlessly. Fall back to Guardian’s Pillar and pick up any stragglers that you can. Kíli and I will go and get Mr. Dwalin.”

 

“You will have to pass the Butcher’s Yard to get there!” Veryan straightened up. “I am coming with you. It was lost to the black Orcs earlier.”

 

“Then we’ll make sure it is aptly named.” Kíli’s grim joke caused some laughs amongst the men. He had a knack of doing that, Boromir had already noticed. In spite of being the son of a King, in spite of having led for a long time, he had a skill with the people, often making them forget who he was.

 

“Veryan, you go with your men; they will need you to get to the Pillar. We will meet you there,” Boromir decided. Kíli and he would be faster together and Veryan’s men needed the break, as much as the reinforcements Boromir had scrounged up after freeing the pewterer’s corner earlier in the day. Or was it day at all? Three days without sun, without light and he hardly knew what hour it was.

 

They fought their way through the Butcher’s Yard, always moving, always attacking, leaving a trail of corpses behind them. Some Orcs tried to use arrows against them, but most of them were deflected by Kíli and the others missed their target. When they made it into the market row, Boromir saw Kíli slip up and stumble. Swiftly he bore down on Kíli’s attackers, killing them swiftly. They were the last of the group.

 

Helping Kíli up he thought he could feel a light shiver, almost a shaking in the dwarf’s arm. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, worry rising inside him. Kíli’s stony endurance had held out for these three days and maybe he too was feeling the strain? No, he was stronger than that, but who knew what means the Enemy employed against him?

 

Kíli swiped a few beads of sweat out of his brow. “I am not injured, don’t worry,” he replied, his dark eyes not quite echoing the words. “I won’t slow you down.”

 

There _was_ an exhaustion in Kíli, though he hid it well. He too knew that a leader must never appear weak, especially in times of war. “We get to Dwalin and back to the second ring,” Boromir said, adjusting his plans a little. He had planned to make the retreat another slaughter of enemy troops, but maybe setting the lower ring on fire would accomplish the same and give his troops a much needed rest? It made sense.

 

They found Dwalin at the center of the market row. He and his dwarves had made a veritable fortress out of a collapsed building and the Orc corpses piled left and right of their makeshift fortification. Boromir joined the fighting swiftly. They needed some space to have a chance to retreat. He was not surprised to find Dwalin standing on a broken foundation wall of the collapsed house, Stormcaller taking a bitter toll amongst the Orcs. The old warmaster fought like he knew no exhaustion. When the last of the Orcs were down, some fleeing to call more reinforcements, Dwalin lowered the hammer. “Time you remembered us. This part of the city is lost,” he growled. “What kept you so long?”

 

“Veryan needed us back in the yards, Dwalin,” Kíli said, leaning on the sword he wielded. “Gather our men and fall back to the Guardian Pillar. Meet up with Veryan there.”

 

“Second ring then?” Dwalin peered up to Boromir. “I sense a plan coming.”

 

“Roasted Orc mostly,” Boromir replied. He was not angered by Dwalin’s directness. The old warrior had seen more sieges than anyone else here and he was a mighty fighter still. Boromir preferred his direct critique to the deference of some Gondorian nobles he could name.

 

Being the last of the troops to fall back to the Guardian’s Pillar, the gate of the second wall, Boromir and Kíli left a burning city behind. Caskets of oil exploded inside buildings and fire ran along the stones to greedily lick at corpses, oil and wood. Boromir knew that without Kíli the fire would not spread like that, but the sight of the Orcs trapped in the flames was exhilarating.

 

TRB

 

“I see my old friend Boromir is having his fun,” Shakurán said to Falon, who sat behind him in the saddle of the Drakhár, bow ready to shoot any threat coming close to them. “Now that I see this, I’d swear he held back all those years.” His Dorwinion companion said little. Falon rarely did in such moments, when his keen eyes were on the ground, keeping an eye out for any bold Ranger trying to shoot them out of the air.

 

Shakurán guided the Drakhár away from the city and down on the command hill outside of Minas Tirith. The view from above had yielded little insight into the Enemy strategy, but had given him a lot of problems to solve. He dismounted the Drakhár and handed the reins to Falon to guide it to the pens, after which he joined the group of captains that comprised the leadership of the army under the Witch King. “Once the fires die down, we need to send the Haradrim in to clear out the ruins, or we will have our Orcs feast on so much grilled meat…”

 

Idrakhán bit back a laugh; it was all too true. “So it is the Haradrim next?” he asked to get a sense for what was to come, for Shakurán was the one receiving the orders from the Witch King, so he knew more of the plan than anyone else.

 

“Only to drive the Orcs out, then we send the Orcs and Varigans to storm again.” Shakurán pointed his chin towards the hills where the troops from Khand were camped.

 

“No Drakhár riders to support them?” Idrakhán asked, feeling the surprised glances of several of the other leaders on him. They were aghast at his open questioning. It was a change he needed to get used to. Shakurán was the Witch King’s most important field commander, the one who received direct orders from the Nazgûl and was in charge of running the day-to-day aspects of the great Siege, and while some of the other leaders would ascribe his own lack of respect to the fact that he was Shakurán’s older brother, he must be careful to not step out of the line.

 

He saw Shakurán close his eyes, his mien becoming absent for a long moment, as if his mind was not with them. It was an awesome sight, and Idrakhán couldn’t help but feel a small sting. They both had worked hard to rise in the ranks of Minas Morgul, both early separated, because Idrakhán had come to Khamûl’s attention, while Shakurán had served Mekhalîl first and ultimately the Witch King. Inside the alliances of the city, they had been on separate sides from day one, and it still was strange that his brother had risen above him in the end. “No.” Shakurán opened his eyes again, an echo of darkness sparkling on the black irises. “He wants to hold them back for the higher rings and the citadel, but we can supplement the Varigians with the Southron auxiliaries, if storming the gate becomes undoable for the Orcs alone.”

 

“The gate only?” he inquired. “Why not storm the full fall length? It will be uphill for sure, but the Orcs can do it.” Again there were the glances, but more subdued this time. The others took the cue that Shakurán tolerated his questioning. They did not know his little brother at all; Shakurán had always listened to opinions, he was too comradely for a legion leader from Minas Morgul.

 

“Because the Gondorians have neither lost their wits nor their heads, Idrakhán. They are making good use of their allies and have dwarven fire to scorch the lower city. I doubt there will be any stable structure left by the time we can move in, even trying to approach the rocks under the second wall will have our troops sink deep into rubble and collapsing structures. No, they have seen to it that we have to storm along the road.”

 

When the others were dismissed, Idrakhán lingered. He wanted to talk to his brother, but during the last weeks that had become all but impossible. Of course he knew Shakurán had the skill for the task he had been given and it had to be an important task, because no foot-soldier would be the one who brought this city to its knees. Idrakhán had seen the black marks on Shakurán’s arms and knew his brother was ready to unleash the ultimate destruction on the White City. It would be a great legend, which the Imperial historians would record: how in the midst of a destructive battle, the leader of the Army gave his soul to bring the Enemy to his knees. Shakurán’s name would live on in the memory of the Empire and would be taught to generations of children to come, much like Jaerdian, who had done the same to Ost-in-Edhil. And of course none of the historians would mention that Shakurán had been chosen because he was loyal but unreliable, because he could not outgrow certain notions of honor, because he could not be fully trusted by the Lord of Barad-Dûr. They would keep that out of the records. When they recorded his life, they might keep his occasional doubts as an example on how to overcome inner weakness and they might keep his long respectful enmity with Boromir of Gondor, because it made for a good story and was an example on how the Empire viewed its great enemies, but everything else would be purged. Idrakhán wondered if Jaerdian had been the same, chosen for reasons no historian had ever dared to record.

 

“It is really too late now for second thoughts, Idrá.” Shakurán eyed him bemusedly, like he could read his mind. “I had expected you to be happy. The order should come when we are up in the fourth or fifth ring. You know what comes after.”

 

“It is not second thoughts.” Idrakhán quickly masked his feelings. Shakurán all too easily got under his skin still. “Maybe I was wondering where our paths diverged so much.”

 

Shakurán shrugged. “Maybe the day you became Khamûl’s pet to the core.”

 

TRB

 

The Varigians were storming again. Supplemented with Southrons and the ever present Orcs, they were storming against the Guardian Gate. During the second night of their storm they had managed to shatter the main gate, but the bottleneck of the mighty stone arch still held them back. Boromir wished the Guardian Gate had a gauntlet like the city gate, but of course it had not. Standing under the archway he helped blocking off the storming Varigians. Kíli was with him, and behind them Dwalin and his fighters made swift work of any enemies getting past them.

 

Like it or not, Boromir would admit that the break had done wonders for his troops and with the shorter space to defend, he had been able to allow them additional hours of rest, which would soon be over if they lost the gate altogether and the fighting started inside the second ring. Not that Boromir himself had needed that break; he had felt almost restless in the hours of silence while the first ring burned, unable to sleep or even sit still. Eventually Kíli had found him and the dwarf’s presence somehow helped against the restless fire inside him. Boromir had seen that Kíli was tired and in the end they had sat down on the battlements, where Kíli had allowed himself to sleep a few short hours, while Boromir was watchful. It had been a restful moment in its own way.

 

A wave of Southrons tried to rush them, curved swords and fierce battle cries ringing from the stone walls of gate, as they raced at them in the fierce frenzy that knew neither reason nor sense. Boromir let them come, sinking deeper into the haze of fighting, cuts and stabs. Blood ran off his blade and more were still coming to die. He fought on, thrusts and parries, each hit one more dead man. He did not need to check to see Kíli was keeping his flank clean, still fighting with the longsword he had picked up. He carved a bloody path through the attackers.

 

Screams rose behind them. “They are over the gate!” Dwalin snapped, as he turned around to fend off Southrons at his back, his mighty hammer smashing their skulls.

 

Boromir spat a curse. How could Thoroniâr have let this happen? But there was no time for anger. First they needed to get out of this trap. He turned to Dwalin and his fighters and trusted that Kíli would have his back as he pushed into the Enemy formation with all of the strength he had. They broke through and reached the yard behind the gate. The fighting was everywhere. Southrons and Varigians were bleeding over the wall and into the yard, but there was still fighting on some parts of the wall. Boromir could see Thoroniâr and his men still holding the eastern bastion above the gate. “Dwalin, leave those in the yard to Veryan. Bottle up the gate! Kíli, you are with me.”

 

It was a desperate tactic, but Boromir was not willing to give ground to the Enemy if he did not have to. Reaching Thoroniâr was only the first step, a bloody fight up the battlements. By the time he got there, half of Thoroniâr’s men had been slaughtered, but the rest was still holding out. The Varigians were too stupid to understand the tactics he was employing. While Dwalin and the dwarves still blocked the gate, Boromir used what was left of Thoroniâr’s force to regain the wall above the gate. It was brutal work. The Varigians had numbers on the wall, and at first it seemed that for every one of them they kicked down the battlements, two more climbed up, but the more ground they gained, the lesser the Varigians supplementing their fallen comrades.

 

Boromir could not tell how many hours later the gate was back in their hands and the remaining Southrons suddenly trapped inside the second ring. “No prisoners,” he told Thoroniâr, who did not question the order he had been given, as they joined the fighting down inside the yard to bring an end to those who had made it inside.

 

The silence came a few hours past midnight, not that the time meant much to Boromir. It could have been mid-afternoon and he’d not have known the difference. Under the darkness in the skies the world seemed to have lost all time and maybe the sun itself had died and forgotten about them. As he looked around Boromir could see the heavy damage to the walls and the gate. It did not look good. But it would do for now. “I need to speak to Faramir, see if he has new insights into our friends,” he said to Kíli. Faramir bore a double burden here, leading his archers in battle and having to make time to scry for the Enemy plans.

 

“I will meet up with Dwalin. Maybe Bifur has some idea what we can do for our damaged gate,” Kíli replied as they parted ways, but as their distance grew Boromir felt the unrest return, like the itch to fight some more was becoming stronger.

 

He found Faramir halfway down the third ring on his way to him. “Boromir, it is good that I find you.” Faramir’s voice was clear and firm, but his eyes were tired. He was burning too much strength too quickly. Boromir wished he could share some of his own strength with his brother, but he knew he could not. Whatever had happened during their stray into the Grey, when Boromir had seen that haunting vision in the waters of Mirrormere and all but called for Kíli to find them, a wall between them had broken down. Something had changed, or maybe something had woken inside him. He could not name it, but he knew it was the reason, the source for his strength, and he could not afford to question it.

 

“Bad tidings I take it?” he asked. “What are they bringing next? Monsters?”

 

“I wish.” Faramir leaned against the wall of an empty building. With most of the populace sent west, they had more space to fight, less people to protect, but the empty houses left an eerie feeling with all of them. “The Easterlings will send one of their Elite Units in around dawn. Boromir, their leader is dangerous and needs to be defeated swiftly.”

 

“So another storm around dawn? Thank you, brother, we’ll be prepared for them.” Boromir already thought on plans. Maybe they should let the Easterlings come inside the yard and then trap them there? Play their perceptions a little? He felt Faramir’s glance on him, and there was worry in his little brother’s eyes. “What is it?” he asked, trying not to sound impatient.

 

“You are changing, Boromir,” Faramir said softly. “Something awoke inside you, something dark fuelling your skill in battle. You have not slept in five days and you are still fresh, in spite of the constant fighting.”

 

“I think it is the bond,” Boromir tried to assuage Faramir’s worries. “I think Kíli and I are sharing strength through it, becoming stronger that way.”

 

Faramir sadly shook his head. “Boromir, listen to me. Whatever bond you and Kíli share, it is counterbalancing something else inside you. Something dark is unfurling within you. It is feeding your power and your friend seems to be the only balance for it right now. You… you need to stop… stop using whatever it is that gives you that strength.”

 

Anger rose inside Boromir and his hand curled into a fist, but he forced himself into calm. Faramir spoke from worry for him, not from pettiness. “Look at this city, Fari. If I stop and go back to fight like I did before, it will fall soon enough. I cannot afford to stop or to question.” He gently reached for his brother’s shoulders. “But you already gave me an insight I lacked, brother. You see what I cannot, like always.”

 

TRB

 

Idrakhán watched as his brother heard the reports from the escaped Varigians. Shakurán never lost his countenance, he never got angry in such moments. The punishments for failure he handed out were announced calmly, and strangely that had earned him the reputation of a stern but fair commander. This time he simply sent the Varigians away, and walked up to Idrakhán. “A word.” Idrakhán fell into step beside his brother. The Witch King had been at camp earlier, but had then been recalled to Barad-Dûr, leaving the battle in the hands of Shakurán.

 

“What can I do?” Idrakhán asked. “We could try and send the Haradrim, or a continuous storm of Orcs might wear them down. I have to admit… they prove harder than we thought.”

 

“Nine reports,” Shakurán said. “I have had nine reports by level-headed field fighters, all of them saying the same: Boromir of Gondor fights like he was blessed by the old war god himself. He does not tire, he does not feel pain and he draws strength from killing. Does that sound familiar, brother? You and I have had the Blessing of the Dark upon us before and we know what it does.” He stopped, meeting Idrakhán’s eyes. “What in the name of the evil spirit of Moria was put into him back in Minas Morgul?”

 

If there was anyone who still remembered the events of twenty years ago it would be Shakurán, Idrakhán rationalized. “He was given a seed of darkness, and it easily could take the shape of what we see here. But… if it did, then he should be out of control. Brother, you know the Dark Blessing. We both have learned to control it, to not succumb to the bloodlust, the irrationality, the greed to kill, occasional slip-ups included. If the dark seed inside him woke and took this shape, then the other side is led by a madman.”

 

“Not if they found a way to control it somehow,” Shakurán said thoughtfully. “And to utilize our own weapon against us. Blood and Ashes, it is so Boromir to turn our best plans against us. Idrá, find me our best assassins and send word back. I need three black Drakhár here. We need to cut the strings of the one holding the madness at bay.”

 

“You know who that would be?” Sometimes, Idrakhán admitted grudgingly, Shakurán’s insights into the enemy’s machinations were astonishing.

 

“There is only two people he’d trust with that, and only one old and cunning enough to try. Off you go, Idrakhán. We have a Steward’s rule to end.” Idrakhán bowed and headed off to convey the orders. It would take a day at least to get the assassins here, along with the black Drakhár.

 

When he returned to report back to Shakurán, he found him on the command hill with the legion leaders. “We will begin by dawn. Orcs first – there is no shortage of them – and Southrons next. They can prove their worth.”

 

“You seem to have the same fatherly opinion of my Varigians,” the Khan of Khand grumbled. “We have shown often enough how to die in that accursed bottleneck. Maybe you’d want to try some of your Easterlings in that blood-pinch for a change?”

 

Shakurán laughed at his insolence. “No, you bow-legged hyena, we will use barbarians against barbarians. There’s too many of you in the world.”

 

“Maybe that is your problem.” Idrakhán almost jumped at the voice of the man striding up the command hill. He spoke the High Eastern Tongue with the clear accent of the capital and walked with a command and confidence that was not cowed the least by being faced with Mordor’s elite.

 

Shakurán too tensed, standing straight, not bowing. “Prince Jaerindár, welcome to the fields. I had not expected you and Thunder Legion so early.”

 

Idrakhán bit his lip when the new arrival took off his heavy helmet, revealing a proud, noble face. The Emperor’s second son! How many reinforcements were coming from the Empire? Was the Army Eternal truly marching?

 

“I am merely the first of many more to come, Shakurán.” Jaerindár cast a cool glance at the assembled commanders. “And in the moment of my arrival I hear that your barbarians have some trouble clearing out the second gate. I’d consider it an honor if you were to agree to let Thunder Legion and I take that part.”

 

Idrakhán did not envy Shakurán now, fir he was in an uncomfortable balance. Born an Easterling, loyalty demanded he defer to the Prince of the Empire. Being the Witch King’s field commander demanded that he take command of the fresh Easterling forces decisively. “It would certainly shorten the tedious battle we have going at the Guardian Gate, Prince Jaerindár.” Shakurán’s voice was calm, unfazed. “The storm will begin in three hours. See that your legion is ready to cross the broken road before dawn or their archers will weed you out badly.”

 

TRB

 

No sun rose on the dawning day that Thunder legion stormed the Guardian Gate of the second ring. In the grey light that was all this day would become, they pushed past the defenders, and into the yard behind. Dwalin watched them, as he ducked behind the shattered wall of a former family home. Overconfidence was an Easterling weakness and Boromir played them masterfully. Sometimes the Captain of Gondor reminded him of some of the great Eastern war leaders he had known, only he lacked the cruel, brutal ways that marked them. He was a good man, even when he fought like a berserker. Dwalin grinned; what did he expect from a man who had gone against a dragon with him and Kíli? They all had been forged from the same dark steel. Normal was for other people.

 

Dwalin held his breath as he waited for the signal, for the moment that the legion would be fully inside the yard, trapped in the narrow confines between the walls. They advanced in orderly fashion; units keeping together, their advance group stopping shortly before the bottleneck road leading out of the yard. The signal came. It was no horn, no clarion calling for them, it was the simply call of a raven ringing out above the wall. Dwalin saw Brea bring her axe down on the ropes, the same as Daroin did. And Bifur’s contraptions began to do their deathly work, collapsing walls and buildings on the Easterlings, tons of rubble crashing in on them, the ground giving way under them, where cellars were being collapsed. Their formation faltered and broke, moments before the Gondorian troops broke from their hideouts and charged at them.

 

Dwalin led his dwarves in from the other side. Across the yard he could see Kíli fight side by side with Boromir, both cutting deeply into the Easterling’s flank. It was maybe the hardest for Dwalin to know Kíli fighting elsewhere, but then Boromir and he had been hardly separable before, during the quest, and they made each other stronger. He’d trust Boromir to keep Kíli alive. He was good at it.

 

There was no surprise when the Easterlings again gained momentum, finding their formation again and they fought all the harder. While Dwalin left Boromir and Kíli to tackle their new formation, he went after those of them who picked up their stragglers. There was one of them, one powerful fighter who seemed to be the heart of their resistance, wherever he turned, his men picked up fresh strength, found formation and step again.

 

Cutting him off between two collapsed ruins, Dwalin greeted him with a heavy swing of his hammer. The Easterling’s shield rang under the blow. But he did not stumble, but retaliated in kind, his sword nearly smashing Dwalin’s vambrace. He turned, using his shoulder for a push and brought Stormcaller about, only to run into a perfect shield-block again.

 

It was a duel the likes of which Dwalin had not fought in many decades. The Easterling fought with a speed and skill of their very best and Dwalin had to let go of everything: of tactics, of thinking, of even the will to survive. He had to allow the wild, almost crazed fighting style that had earned him the name Bloodbane into the foreground again. It was not a fight of forms, but of smashing blows, of stabs and cuts, of falls and retaliations. They both fought like the wild things of old might have. Dwalin forgot about the battle around him, about Boromir and his strategy, about Kíli even… There was nothing but the fight and this one enemy. He did not know how long it had been, how long their deathly dance had lasted, before one of Stormcaller’s blows smashed the Easterling to the ground and Dwalin finished the work with a clean dagger into the chest.

 

The Easterling’s breath became ragged. He coughed hard as his body convulsed. He had lost his helm in a bout before and his young face was visible in the grey light of the dark day. “Who… who are you…?” he rasped, his breath audibly painful.

 

Dwalin knelt down beside him. He knew that being killed by a nameless foe was dishonor amongst their kind. “Dwalin, son of Fundin,” he replied.

 

“Dwalin…?” Another hard cough rocked the young body… or was he as young as he appeared? Dwalin could see the seals of worship shine at both temples and he did recognize the insignia on the harness. Why? Why had one of them to fight here? Why now? “It’s… it’s been a long time. Tell… tell my father I tried…”

 

Gently Dwalin closed the broken eyes of the Easterling legion leader. “Sleep under the Shadows, Prince of the East. May no dreams stir your rest and may your people sing of your deeds until the final dawn,” he said softly in the tongue of the East.

 

When he looked up he realized the fighting was over. Thunder legion had not survived the storm at the gate. He rose to his feet, his heart still heavy, to find Kíli and see how the situation was. He saw both of them, Kíli and Boromir, by the shattered gate, Boromir pointing east. “More reinforcements are coming, Easterlings if I am to take guess by the banners. I wish there was daylight and we could see more.” The Captain’s voice was tense.

 

Dwalin joined them, climbing on some broken stones to see more. Down across the Pelennor marched long columns of the legions, their banners flying in the eastern gale. And ahead of them Dwalin saw it: a large banner of deep crimson silk adorned with the golden dragon of the East. “The Eternals… They are sending the Eternals themselves.” His own voice had sunken to a whisper. “Their Emperor himself is here.”

 

He felt Boromir’s gaze upon him. “Their Emperor himself? It will be a battle like never before.” Dwalin could see that Boromir did not underestimate the danger they were in. He was too smart for that. “We will need a good plan.”

 

“What you need is time to fall back to the third wall,” Dwalin said, his voice becoming steadier again. “We cannot hold against them here much longer, and certainly not against Jadhur and the Eternals. They are… They are like no other force I have ever seen fighting.”

 

“I doubt we will have that much time when he learns that he already lost a legion up here.” Kíli’s voice was grim. “We better hurry to get our positions fortified.”

 

Dwalin averted his gaze, trying to sound calm, while his voice would hardly obey him. “I can give you the night, maybe the day after too,” he said, looking up at Boromir. “Their leader… I killed him back in the yard… He is one of Jadhur’s boys, Jaerindár or Jariel, I’d venture to guess. He will want the body back to send him to the Shadowlands in honor. That takes at least a night of not fighting, most likely the day after too. And Jadhur is not someone to accept a no, not even from the Witch King. When it comes to his honor, he’d even argue with the Great Lord himself.”

 

Boromir’s face became thoughtful. “How great is the risk for you in such a parley?” he inquired. “I will not risk you like that, not even for a full day’s reprieve.”

 

“I killed the boy, Boromir. That earns me a strange status amongst them for now. If I bring back the body, I do what honor demands, and their honor in turn will demand to let me go.” Dwalin straightened, squaring his shoulders. “And I want to do it. The boy deserves an honorable funeral.”

 

Kíli approached him, gently clasping his shoulders, his black eyes full of worry and compassion. “I know what this is doing to you, Dwalin,” he said softly. “And if it is your wish to bring that young leader home, then that is what you do. No one will say otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* Don’t forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!!


	32. In the hour of silence

Windbreaker’s Howe was a no-man’s land, situated right before the broken walls of Minas Tirith and the encampment of the dark forces. It had been left to those trying to storm the city, to those who died here. Dwalin had walked in such places before, where only the dead were residing still, and he paid little heed when he untied the packhorse on Windbreaker’s Howe. There had been a few skulking Orcs that had met their fate upon his warhammer. Carefully he unloaded Jaerindár’s body from the horse, bedding him down on an upturned shield, in a place free of Orc bodies. It was as dignified or clean as Dwalin could make it.

 

He recalled the rolling hills far to the East by the Great Inland Sea where Arhûn had been laid to rest. This young Prince would deserve to rest by his grand-uncle’s side, but he’d sleep instead by Anduin’s cold shores. Slowly Dwalin took the rough wooden beams from the horse. He had gathered them up in the broken buildings, and they’d have to do. He tied them into five pairs of crossing torches, placed them around the place where he was standing and then lit them, so they’d form the shape of the Imperial Flame when seen from afar. Dwalin used the rest of the wood to light a small fire inside the area the torches marked, and sat down cross-legged by the fire. Now came the waiting. The sign ought to be clearly visible for the Enemy, and they would know what it meant.

 

Sometimes during the silent vigil Dwalin’s eyes strayed to the dead Prince. He still looked young, but he knew that for an illusion. The Blessings in the Dark Temple had granted his father a lifespan beyond that of mortal men and it had extended to his sons. The seals of worship at the young one’s temples said as much. Jadhur had taken faith very seriously, even back in those days when he had been a Prince on the run, hardly holding himself against his twin. And Jaerindár – Dwalin was sure it was him – had only been a boy then, in constant danger of being kidnapped and used against his father. The memories became stronger, and Dwalin did not try to push them away.

 

The Pale-Light Fortress deep in the Witch Swamps of the East… a place where strange things haunted the mist, and the trees themselves would try to strangle a man passing them. He still could see the cold lights of the old Witchmaster’s hideout if he closed his eyes, and he could hear the swishing of the Blood Willows in the cold autumn winds. It had been autumn, and as wretched an autumn as he had seen in a long time, when he had been creeping through the marshes to sneak into the fortress of the swamps. The strange, bowed, treelike monster guarding the place, how many of them had he killed? He could not tell, if he was honest. He had hoped for the money that was on the Witchmaster’s head. Balin’s last letter had spoken of some ill things at home, and of Thorin being his proud stubborn self, too prideful to accept any help from friends.

 

What Dwalin had not expected was to find a child in the old Witchmaster’s clutches. He had deposed of the old bastard quickly enough, and then squatted down beside the boy. “I’ll get you out of here, laddie, but you need to be a sneaky as a cat, and as silent too. Our lives depend on it. Can you do that for me?” He still recalled the nod of the wide-eyed boy and he had been so brave, sneaking after Dwalin through the swamps. Only outside Dwalin had learned more, when he ran into Ghránion and his men. “You are a mercenary, Dwalin, and there is thrice the money on that boy than there was on that old Witchmaster… I will make it four times, if I get the child alive.” He still had not known who the child was, but he had known his answer. “I may be a sellsword, Ghránion, but my honor never was for sale.” It had earned them a dangerous flight all across Calmarth’s Plain…

 

Again his eyes went to the young man. His face seemed almost peaceful, like he was asleep. It was a bitter irony that it had been Dwalin who had killed him, and yet… Dwalin knew this was war; they all had tossed their name into death’s empty drum and whenever he rang his drumstick on it, a name would fall out, and a warrior would die. There was no sense to it; the pale figure on the black horse rode beside every army.

 

Hooves that rang out in the darkness called him back from his musings and as he looked up, he saw five riders galloping through the night towards him. He did not need to guess who it was. There was only one kind of such a warhorse in all the East and they were reserved for the Imperial Family and their personal legion, the Eternals. In the blazing light of the torches he could see the riders, all wearing the same black lamellar armor the armorers of the East knew to make so very well. The helmets were adorned with the blood-colored horse mane, except for the one in the middle, which it was pale. Dwalin’s hand fell to the hammer beside him, before he thought better of it. It could hardly be…

 

And still it was. Even as the armor hardly distinguished him from his legionnaires, Dwalin knew it was him. The same walk, that confident stride, perfectly in balance and light on his feet. It was decades ago, and Dwalin still could tell his step apart from that of any other man. He waved the other four to remain behind and stepped between the torches, taking off the helmet, revealing a lean oval face, the bronze skin of his Eastern blood, framed by dark hair, now streaked with iron-grey. “I am a stranger to your camp, warrior,” he said in the Eastern tongue, not bothering to speak the Western tongue, which Dwalin knew he was fluent in.

 

Jadhur himself… Why could he not have sent one of his minions? “I welcome you to my fire.” Dwalin gave the formal reply that preceded all negotiations.

 

Jadhur stepped into the ring of torches and sat down by the fire, opposite of Dwalin. He sat cross-legged with the casual ease of someone still in the prime of his strength, not knowing the pangs and aches of age yet. Their eyes met across the flames, and there was no doubt that they had recognized each other. “Dwalin,” Jadhur finally broke the silence. “When Shakurán, that little sycophant of the Witch King, claimed you were with the Gondorians, I almost wanted him whipped for spreading lies. You never chose the losing side before.”

 

“I recall telling you once that I choose the side I happen to like, and to the deeps with good sense,” Dwalin replied. Why, oh why was it so easy to simply link back to those days?

 

“Still the old warhorse, I see.” Jadhur’s eyes strayed to the body of his son. “You killed him, I take it?” If he felt pain or sadness he did not show it.

 

He never did, and Dwalin knew that. He had been there on that terrible day when Jadhur had executed his twin brother. And while a severely drunken night before had laid bare the nightmare of the very thought, Jadhur had gone through with it, an image of strength and confidence for anyone to see. Dwalin doubted that anyone in the Empire still knew that Jadhur had almost cried for the fact that he’d have to execute his twin. “Aye,” he replied. “I did only recognize him the last moment. He fought very well. My only advantage was experience. And… his last thoughts were of you.”

 

“He was a good son. His brother will be pained to hear how it all ended. Jariel may try to avenge him, though I hope he thinks better of it, when he hears it was you.” Jadhur’s eyes softened for a moment. A stranger might mistake it for a trick of the firelight, but Dwalin knew how to read that expression. Only for one moment he had seen behind that mask of Jadhur showed the world.

 

“You brought Jariel too?” he asked, a bit startled. “Jadhur, what in the name of the great demented beast in Moria do you think you are doing, bringing your eldest son to this battlefield? Even if you had sired a dozen more sons during your reining years, and I know haven’t… This is madness. Jariel, he never was the warrior that little Jaerindár was.”

 

“Should I be surprised that you still care?” Jadhur replied. “There is no other choice, Dwalin. I cannot leave this war to spook figures like the Witch King, or Legionnaires like Idrakhán, who think that there is no power above the Lord of Barad-Dûr. If I want to influence this war, I need to be here.”

 

“So your Oracles are reading the signs too.” Dwalin leaned his powerful hands closer to the fire, “I should have guessed you’d not go to war without consulting the Oracles. But if you know what you are up against, why not break your little dalliance with Barad-Dûr? As you rightly said, he is not the Great Lord himself.”

 

“Now it gets interesting. You never put much faith into Oracles and prophecies, but you seem to know more about why the Oracles whisper of Doom falling.” Jadhur leaned his elbows on his knees, sitting relaxedly. It was just one warrior with another, and a dark field outside the firelight.

 

_And it shall come to pass that the Tower of Wizardry shall wake from the blood of the Unworthy,_

_And its shadow shall fall upon heart and souls, marring the world,_

_And then the Lord of the Morning shall appear, and behind him shall follow a tail of fire,_

_Cutting through castles and gates, through armies and nations,_

_Do you see his Blade cleave them? It brings suffering to the world._

_I see him and I weep._

Dwalin quoted slowly. “Isn’t that what your forbidden books write? Isn’t that the prophecy your brother warned you against, before he died?”

 

Jadhur’s hand fell to his sword, and for a moment Dwalin thought he had overstepped his boundaries, but the Emperor did not draw the blade. “From any but you, I’d silence such insult,” he said coolly. “So, the Lord of the Morning himself? You just gave me a warning of great worth, Dwalin. Strange that you still are of such help to me.” He settled a little differently. “I heard of King Thorin’s death. They say he fell in a great battle. The few survivors who made it back told such stories… I will have them written down, for it is not a battle to be forgotten.”

 

Dwalin exhaled sharply. He knew that the Easterlings always recorded the history of the great adversaries. It was their way of ensuring they’d never underestimate a foe. “I’ll have to deal with that bloody bastard Trakhaine, when we are done here, any issues with that?” he growled, unable to keep some of the pain out of his voice.

 

“I am afraid that Trakhaine was killed by Prince Asutri in single combat,” Jadhur told him. “That young one clearly shows your good training, I will admit that. And saddened as I am to hear about the passing of your great King, it would also release you from your oath to him, would it not?”

 

A cold gust of wind brushed past Dwalin, making the skin of his bald head shiver. Jadhur had wanted him as part of the new Eternals, as their legion leader, back after the Succession. He had respected that Dwalin had sworn an oath to a King, and not pressed the issue further. But he would not try to recruit him now, would he? “My King had a son,” he pointed out.

 

“To whom you have not sworn yet.” Jadhur looked at him, dark eyes shining in the firelight. “Let me be blunt here, Dwalin. I have no enmity to your people, nor your young Prince. He seems to be quite the character from what I hear. And I have considerable influence with the Shadow. There is no need for your Prince and your people to perish for the Númenoran’s sake. Deliver the city into my hands, and you have my word that your Prince and your people will be free to go. I’d even support them to clear out that horrid Orc den called Misty Mountains. When did the Light ever aid you? When did your allies ever help your people? Mount Gundabad, Khazad-dum, Erebor… You always were alone in your fights.”

 

Dwalin shivered and it was not from the wind. The last bit was his own words, spoken slightly drunk and a little bitter, shortly after the first battle of the Firelands. “And you would change that? I doubt the Lord of Barad-Dûr would agree.” He tried to evade the topic entirely.

 

“Let us say he is not the Highest in the hierarchy of the Shadow, and he too has to listen to reason, much to his dislike at times,” Jadhur replied, “And he has guaranteed me the freedom for all allies I can bring to the war.”

 

“And to prove my new allegiances you want me to deliver the city into your hands, betray my comrades… even my Prince.” Dwalin shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

 

“You would be saving your Prince, Dwalin. If it is true that the Lord of the Morning is taking shape on your side, no one will be safe before long. You know the forbidden book, you know the stakes.” Jadhur lowered his hands. “Take your time to think about it. My offer stands until the fifth ring has fallen.”

 

TRB

 

Anarion would not have broken his cover easily. High up in the Mountains of Shadow coming to anyone’s aid was sheer foolishness. Because there were no fleeing captives in Mordor, no allies trapped in the dark lands, but the Easterlings never tired of using such quaint baits for the faint-hearted. But this time, this time he truly wondered if he had walked through Old Halfwren’s mists and walked into the end of another age, for there was no other explanation for three elves – one tall elf and two small ones – fighting against a group of Orcs in the remains of what once had been Ashtrail Pass.

 

The tall elf was dishing out a toll of death that would leave many a warrior envious and one of the small ones clearly knew what to do with a sword too, but the Orcs were still too numerous for them. He gestured to his left, where he knew Ohtar and Cirán hiding in the rocks. Leomar and Lerán, the twins, were on the other side of the pass and would not see it, but they’d understand from his actions. Anarion rose to his feet and took his bow, sending the first arrow down at the Orcs, firing in rapid succession. There was no Ranger who could not fire seven arrows before the first even hit, and with Ohtar and Cirán reacting at once, it was a true hailstorm of arrows coming down on the Orcs. The twins followed suit, weeding out the Orc numbers down in the former pass road. It was over before long and no Orc escaped to report to their garrison.

 

The tall elf looked around distrustfully, not sheathing his sword. “Come out,” he said in the western tongue. “Who are you?”

 

Anarion deftly made his way down to the former pass road, coming to stand only a few steps from the elf. “I could ask you the same, Master Elf. What brings three of your kind into the Mountains of Shadow, on the very eve of war?” They had seen the long columns of reinforcements marching for Minas Tirith, and deep down Anarion had no idea how the city was to survive the storm, though he did not allow himself to dwell on that thought.

 

One of the small elves, the one in the chainmail armor and with the sword, stepped forward, looking up at Anarion. “Our errand is one of such secrecy that I would not trust to speak of it, least of all in such lands,” he said. “But we departed with nine other companions from Rivendell. One was an elf, and friend to Aelin here, another was Gandalf the Grey, two were dwarves from far away Erebor and two were men. One of them came from your homeland. His name was Boromir and he perished to allow us to escape an Orc trap at Amon Hen.”

 

“He perished?” Anarion asked, arching an eyebrow, trying to sort what he had heard here. He had no idea what errand had sent Lord Boromir so far North, nor with whom he had returned, save for the Dwarven Prince who had come to the city with him, so it was hard to judge if this could be the truth, but he perceived a genuine sadness in the small elf’s face.

 

“Yes… he and Prince Kíli were separated from us first, distracting the Orcs. The others kept the Orcs off our backs so we could cross the river. They gave their lives, so we could continue.” He hung his head, and even distrustful Anarion could not deny that there was genuine grief in his voice.

 

“Then be comforted; neither Lord Boromir nor Prince Kíli died at least. They both had many battles on the road, which I do know little of, but they both came back to Minas Tirith in the end,” he said, eliciting a surprised raising of the head and a bright smile on the small elf’s face.

 

“They live? Oh, the Light be thanked for that.”

 

Anarion’s group had caught up with him. The four other Rangers left him to do the talking, though. “Maybe you could tell me where you are trying to go, especially on an ancient pass road that has not seen any real use since when? The Last Alliance?”

 

Now the tall elf’s eyes pierced him coldly. “We are trying to avoid the mainly used passes. If someone wishes to sneak into the shadow’s own lands, he should avoid being seen. And a stranger might well give his name, before claiming to be friendly in this land.”

 

“My name is Anarion, and I could say the same about you, again.” Anarion had never met an elf before, let alone three of them, but they certainly were all that the legends claimed: aloof, slightly arrogant and great warriors.

 

“My name is Frodo,” the smaller elf spoke up. “This is Sam, and our friend here is Aelin. Our errand leads us deeper into the dark land, and staying too close to us too long will only gain you danger, Anarion.”

 

“I am a Ranger, Frodo. Danger is wherever I go,” Anarion shrugged. “So your errand leads you across the mountains? Then this pass will not help you. Ashtrail pass has been blocked for many a century. There is a huge Orc fortress ahead, along with their breeding dens.” He pointed south of them. “Dark Echo Pass would be your next chance to get across.”

 

“Which is crawling with troops marching for Minas Tirith,” Aelin pointed out. “And I for one am not set on getting into the squabbles between Southlander troops and Orc legions.”

 

“Maybe you could help us?” Frodo tilted his head, “If you are a Ranger, you will know these mountains better than anyone.”

 

Anarion looked away, trying to sort his warring thoughts. By strict orders he would have to capture them and bring them to Cair Andros, where the Captain of the Fortress could inform the Steward about the strangers traipsing around inside their borders. Only with Minas Tirith under siege it was not very likely that any answer would come from there. Or he could kill them as Enemy spies, only elves were not allies of the Enemy and they had never been. They had been allies to Gondor in the days of old, which might oblige him to help. Then he remembered something Lord Boromir had said to him before they had left the city. _Aside of looking into the Enemy’s movements, I want you to look for traces of something else. I dare not tell you more, but you will know when you encounter them. Show this to them. It will prove them true.”_

 

What he had given Anarion was a very small, crudely cut wooden box. It looked like nothing at all. But Anarion had taken it, along with the cryptic orders he had been given. He took the small item from the pouch at his belt and held it up.

 

Sam, the other small elf, shot forward. “The salt-box! You really must have met Boromir. He fished it out of the river the other day and said he’d see it dried. Do you know how hard it is to cook without any salt?”

 

Stifling a smile Anarion let him take the box. The Captain had been right, there was no doubt that Sam knew this item. He turned to his men. “Leomar, you will lead the other back to Ithilien. Keep hounding the Enemy’s forces and find out what you can. Report to Cair Andros if Minas Tirith remains besieged.”

 

“Anarion, you can’t consider helping them.” Leomar stepped forward. “No matter what they claim they are. We better bring them back to Ithilien.”

 

“No, I will go with them and show them a path across these mountains,” Anarion replied firmly. “If you can get word back to the city, complain to the Ranger Captain about it, but my decision stands.” He hated to pull rank on his friend, but there had been a reason why Lord Boromir had given him that cryptic order and the box. He must have wanted him to recognize the three elves for friends and aid them.

 

Leomar nodded slowly. “It’s your life you are playing with, Anarion. I will continue the scouting with the others. May your path lead you home in the end.” With that he turned, pulling the dark hood of his cloak up again as he led the other three to vanish in the shadows of the valley again.

 

“You have an idea how to cross Dark Echoes Pass without being seen?” Aelin asked, studying Anarion critically. “I doubt even an elf could slip by them.”

 

“An elf might not, but two Easterlings with two captives for Barad-Dûr will march right through,” Anarion smiled. “All we need to do is to kill one of their patrols and take their armors.” It was a crazy plan, but then, Rangers always did such things. Sneaking around deep inside the Enemy’s own land, playing the rifts and jealousies of the Shadow’s troops. It would be a dangerous game to play, but Anarion was sure they could do it.

 

TRB

 

Kíli breathed a sigh of relief when Dwalin returned to them in the hour that would have been sunrise, had there been a sun left to rise above this city. The troops had used the night to retreat behind the third wall, fortifying the gate and its towers with additional spear throwers and small catapults. They all knew what they were in for once the storm began again.

 

When Dwalin returned, leading the packhorse, Kíli noticed at once how tired the older dwarf looked; his powerful shoulders bowed slightly as he walked. How heavy was the death of that young leader weighing on his old heart? He walked towards Dwalin to greet him, and the older dwarf stopped once he was inside their fortifications, handing over the horse’s reins to one of the soldiers. “They are beginning the funeral down there. I doubt they will storm again before nightfall or next morning,” he said roughly, before turning to the bastion where the dwarves were now garrisoned.

 

“I better go and talk to him,” Kíli said to Boromir, who had come with him. “This… It is weighting him down. I never considered what it would mean for him to fight against the East.” He knew he could speak openly. Because of the long war against the Shadow, Boromir understood; he too knew them well.

 

“You better do, Kíli,” Boromir agreed. “The Easterlings, they are good at playing with your mind, yank your chain and twist things upside down. I’ve had enough of that from Shakurán over the years. And who knows how much worse it is for Dwalin now. He is a living legend for them, Dwalin Bloodbane. He will need you now. I’ll go up to the citadel and confer with Faramir and my father. Can you find me there, once you are done?” He knew that the restlessness would return once he separated from Kíli, but he could control it for a few hours, especially if he allowed the bond to remain open, to feel Kíli’s presence, though his friend was in another part of the city.

 

“I will join you at the citadel, later,” Kíli promised. He could feel Boromir reaching for the bond and did not block him out. There was an urgency in the way Boromir reached for it that he had never perceived before. Yet, the strength of the renewed bond also gave Kíli a measure of peace. He’d never quite get over losing Fíli, but the strong, intense bond quenched the loneliness.

 

Dwalin had gone underground already. The bastion was not made as a garrison, but for dwarves the confines of solid stone and heavy rock were ideal, even if the entire thing was a maze. Most of their troop made use of the chance to rest, knowing the reprieve would be short-lived. Sitting down in a gap under a crenel, Dwalin was unsurprised as Bifur joined him, bringing him a bowl of soup. “Being forlorn is not a good thing,” the builder said in ancient Khuzdul.

 

“I am not forlorn,” Dwalin grumbled, casting a sharp glance at the other dwarf. Bifur was often perceived as not quite there, because of his ancient tongue and cryptic words, but Dwalin knew that behind all the damage the injury had done, was a perceptive mind and a wise old dwarf. “And you don’t need to look at me like that.”

 

Bifur simply sat down. He sometimes used his status as ‘crazy’ to ignore common politeness and make sure that people listened to him. “But you do not know where you belong anymore,” he replied. “You have lost your way.”

 

Why had Bifur to be so insightful, why did he always read people like they were open books? Dwalin wondered. “I shouldn’t even have doubts,” Dwalin said bitterly. “It should not be a question. And yet… There is a part of me, that…” He broke off, looking at Bifur. “How do you know where you belong? How did you know after leaving the Blacklocks?”

 

Bifur reached into a pouch at his belt procuring a stone – a white sparkling pebble, like they could be found in the Blue Mountains – and showed it Dwalin. “This reminds me. Whenever I go astray, I remember why I have it,” he simply said.

 

It was such a Bifur answer; cryptic, slightly strange and somewhere wise, if one could find the right angle to look at it. “And why do you have it?” Dwalin hated to play the questions and answer game, but Bifur always worked that way.

 

The older dwarf leaned back against the wall. “When we first came to the Ered Luin, I went through a bad time. It was before Óin treated my wound. I used to forget where I was, or what had happened. I took to hiking off, trying to get back home to the Blacklock strongholds in the Misty Mountains, because I forgot that we had been banished from there.” He bowed his head. “Bofur had a bad time of it, finding me. One day, after I had gone off again, I camped on Greymist peak. I had already remembered that I must not go to the Blacklocks, but I still did not know where to go when little Kíli and Fíli found me. They had been ‘scouting’ around outside Cardemir and found me. They always had been friendly to me…” A sad smile shone in Bifur’s eyes. “And they asked what was wrong with me. I… I told them that I kept forgetting where I belonged, and then went searching. And Kíli gave me this.” His eyes pointed at the pebble. “A stone to remember where I belonged, to always know I belonged with them.”

 

Dwalin saw Bifur close his hand around the pebble, and understood what the stone meant to him. A link, a confirmation he belonged with them, or maybe with Kíli; Bifur had always shown Kíli a special loyalty. Such a simple thing, and still it had given Bifur the strength to deal with his damage, it still told Bifur that he belonged with them. “What you need is a pebble, Dwalin.”

 

“Or maybe a friend?” Kíli had ducked down under the low archway leading into their hideout. Bifur rose and left, with a short nod towards Kíli as the younger dwarf sat down beside Dwalin. He looked at Dwalin. “If you want to leave, you can. No one should be forced to fight those who once were friends.”

 

“Kíli.” Dwalin shook his head. It was such a Kíli thing to say. “I… I should not even think of what Jadhur said, and discussing it with you…” He bowed his head tiredly.

 

A strong hand reached for his cheek, making him look up. Kíli’s dark eyes held his gaze and there was no accusation in them. “He wants you back,” Kíli stated. “Who would not?”

 

The words washed past Dwalin. He hardly heard them, it was Kíli’s eyes that almost broke something inside him. The open, warm eyes called back memories, memories of a small child born in a wretched night in Dunland, of a small dwarfling trying bravely to not be a burden on that long, dreary march towards the Ered Luin, of a young warrior hanging onto everything ‘Mr. Dwalin’ had to say with wide eyes, and of a young Prince growing into the role on a quest against a dragon – a friend of many years. How could he even consider turning on him? “Jadhur wants to recruit me, he wants me to betray you, betray this city…” The words broke out of Dwalin like a flood breaking a dam. “He knows I wanted to stay in the East back when we won the civil war. He knew he had won my loyalties. I wasn’t a mercenary any more. And now…” He swallowed hard. “You should kill me for even thinking of such treason.”

 

Kíli’s strong hands grasped Dwalin’s shoulders, a gesture of friendship if anything. “You are free to go, Dwalin. If you feel this is your path, I will make sure you get out of the city alive.” Kíli’s voice was firm, without any anger in it. “There is nothing here that binds you.”

 

“Why?” Dwalin could hardly push out the words, shaken by what Kíli had just said. “You… you before anyone else in this world have a claim on my loyalties. Through your father, you should demand them… or hate me for considering otherwise.”

 

“Loyalty is not something that can be forced, Dwalin. The only loyalty that means something is what we are willing to give to another, because we want to,” Kíli said, never looking away from him. “You chose to go a long way with my family, but if you feel that this is where it ends, I will respect that. I’d miss you, though.”

 

He truly meant it. He’d allow Dwalin to leave, because he did not believe in loyalties heaped on them through their forefathers. It was so Kíli; he never had demanded loyalty from others, but won it, earned it by being the dwarrow he was. And Dwalin admired him for that. He’d been proud of calling him his Prince. And he knew his answer, the only answer there was, because underneath it all, Kíli cared for him, not for the warrior who had killed hundreds of foes, not for the war leader who had ruthlessly led campaigns in the East, not for the fighter who still could carve a path of blood through more foes, but for Dwalin.

 

Returning the gesture, clasping Kíli’s shoulders with his hands, Dwalin slightly bowed his head. “And I will continue to follow you, through war or peace, in life or death, from this day to the day I die, this I swear. Mahal smite me if I am untrue.” It was far from the formal oath a warrior would swear, but this was not a court, nor a formal place. This was only them and it was an oath that meant it all. He felt Kíli embrace him, the words of acceptance washing over him, and he knew he had found his anchor again, the pebble Bifur had meant.

 

Their foreheads touched and there was an accepting silence falling on them. Suddenly Kíli jerked back, like hit by an invisible whip. Dwalin’s hand went to his hammer. “What is it?”

 

“Something is wrong… at the citadel… Boromir… He is fighting.” Kíli jumped to his feet, hastily grabbing his weapons again. “Come with me.”

 

They raced up the road and towards the sevenths gate. In the empty streets there were only a few guards noticing them, as they took the shortest way towards the white citadel. When they came into the inner yard of fortress Dwalin heard fighting. The sounds of weapons echoed from the council hall. The same moment he felt a swoosh in the air, and a shadow fell upon him. He greeted it with his hammer as he turned around, seeing the black wings of a beast swish past him. “Black Drakhár, assassins. Kíli, get to Boromir!” he shouted, turning towards the beast. He’d not let them get to his friends.

 

Kíli found the door of the council hall open, and inside the fighting was still going on. He could see Denethor lying on the ground before the council chair, Faramir trying to tend to him while Boromir was holding off three black-armored assassins. He fought with a broken blade in one hand and a dagger in the other and had a hard stand against the three.

 

Swiftly Kíli drew the sword he had picked up in the fighting days ago and weighed it in his hand. He leaned back like a spear-thrower and threw the blade, cleanly impaling one of the three assassins in the back. The man stumbled and fell. Boromir understood at once and yanked the weapon free, coming around to stab the next assassin. Kíli had drawn his dagger, going for the third of them, but he had already broken away from his position in a last mad dash for Denethor, to be impaled on Faramir’s sword. The blade shrieked and shattered as it dealt death to the last attacker.

 

“Are there more outside?” Boromir whipped around and headed for the door, but Kíli held him back. The noise in the yard had died down and he could hear Dwalin’s voice, speaking with the guard. “Dwalin killed the shadow Drakhár out there. The guards are alerted, we should be safe. How is your father?”

 

“I stemmed the bleeding.” Faramir had knelt down beside his father again. “But we need to bring him to the Houses of Healing. I fear there might be a black poison on their weapons.”

 

Denethor tried to push himself up, but failed at it. Faramir aided his father to sit, to lean against the stone wall. “You need to save your strength, father.”

 

The old steward shook his head. “The Healers will preach enough of that to me soon enough.” His voice was raspy, and his breathing ragged. “Boromir, Faramir… listen to me… You too, Dwarf Prince.” He drew another ragged breath. “The Enemy is trying to destroy the leadership of this city, to break us through infighting and squabbles. You have to lead them now. Do not let yourselves be divided, do not doubt yourselves and you _will_ see this through.” He grasped the hands of his sons, holding onto them. “Listen, a long time ago, my father had a vision, a dream that haunted him for most of his life. He spoke of the day when the Emperor of the East would bring his armies before our walls. When the healers have me, go to the old armory and take what you find there. You will need it.”

 

He sank back, strength waning slowly. Thoroniâr came, with a group of healers. Only hesitantly did Boromir let them carry their father away to the Houses of Healing. Anger and determination warred inside him. They would not let the Enemy win, no matter what he brought to bear against them.

 

“Your healers are good at what they do. Do not give up just yet, Faramir.” He heard Kíli’s voice, speaking to his brother. “If they can bring him over the next days, we can find a way to heal him fully.”

 

“You really never give up?” Faramir asked, shaking his head, the gesture betraying how tired he truly was. “Without father, I do not know how much I can scry alone from the Enemy’s plans.”

 

“Nothing,” Boromir said firmly. “Faramir, I won’t have you risk it. It is too dangerous. Your foresight got us this far, but now we have to do without it. And we can. We know what the Enemy wants, we know his leaders, and we will work with what we know. No more risks with that seeing stone, no more scrying.” He reached out, putting a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, the other on Kíli’s. It was the three of them who had to stem the black tide, and even as Boromir felt the darkness surge inside him, he knew they could do it. He could be the weapon and they would make sure he would not lose himself to it. The war had just begun.

 

In the dark day of silence the three warriors entered the ancient armory deep under Minas Tirith’s Guard towers to find three swords there – three blades forged by request of Ecthelion a long time ago, forged by a dwarf now fallen in battle; three blades resting in the dark waiting to bring the world hope, while down in the Enemy camp whispers began to spread that the Lord of the Morning had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful LadyDunla again sacrificed her time to help me with this chapter. Thank you so much! I hope I am not stealing too much time from your own stories.


	33. This city must not fall

“Drakhár!” The scream ran out hoarsely between the burning buildings. Faramir ducked under the broken stone arch that once had been the entrance of the conflagrant building, bow bent and ready to shoot. Above the street, shrouded by shadow and the black smoke rising from the incinerated homes, he saw three shadows glide through the air. They kept a steady height, contrary to those of them who were used to drop off troops, but Faramir could see the barrels they carried in their claws. Casks of liquid fire. Ever since the storm had begun anew this had been one of the new horrors in the arsenal of the Easterling armies, and it made Faramir glad they had sent the populace away from the city, or they’d have died a gruesome death in the flames.

 

He slipped out of his cover and kept as close as he could to the blackened building, waiting for the Drakhár to glide further above what was left of the third ring. If they wanted to attack the fourth gate – the Gate of Silence – they had to swing about. And there it was; the first Drakhár flapped its mighty wings, slowly turning, and the others followed. It was the moment Faramir had waited for. He fired his arrows in rapid succession, striking at the first and second Drakhár, clean hits to their shoulders, where the main sinew that controlled their wings ran. The beasts shrieked shrilly, as they tumbled in the air. Unable to move their wings, they fell and crashed behind the third gate where their own troops were amassed.

 

Faramir had no time to be jubilant, for the handler of the third Drakhár had seen the danger and directed his Drakhár out of the path of Faramir’s arrows. Now he came around and the powerful winged lizard dove down on Faramir. He knew that he stood no chance fighting; the handler would not try to grab him, but simply drop the lethal cargo his beast carried right upon him. Racing back into the burning street, Faramir jumped across a still smoldering wall, hoping to lose the enemy in the narrow confines of the ruins. Drakhár were too heavy to navigate such confined spaces easily. Behind himself he felt the brush of wind the powerful wings caused as the handler redirected the Drakhár back into the air.

 

The smell warned Faramir moments before the first Orc jumped him. He had run into one of their advance groups. Shifting from bow to sword, he parried their first attacks. He could hardly say how long the fighting had gone on. The third ring was rapidly falling in a storm of blood and fire and if things continued like that, there was little hope for the fourth ring to hold out much longer. They had made good on slowing down the Enemy again, but their own troops were wearing down, while the Enemy had still plenty of fresh reinforcements.

 

Stabbing one of the Orcs, Faramir felt the whistling of arrows past him, striking the rest of them down. Anborn and Golvarin had caught up with him. “Where is Mablung?” he asked them, as they headed back towards what once had been the Circle of Wisdom – a place of learning and libraries, now a burning battlefield.

 

“Dead, one of their archers got him.” Anborn’s reply was curt, to the point and devoid of feeling. The Ranger’s ranks had been diminishing quickly in the brutal battle and, like many of them, Anborn forbade himself from feeling anything. The task was not ended, the battle was yet to be fought, and he’d not break. It pained Faramir to see it. He knew the price his men paid for their icy calm. There might not be many Rangers left by the end of the war.

 

They reached the Circle of Wisdom, only to run into a major fight once more. The Enemy had sent their Easterlings to storm again, having pushed away most of the defenses in the lower ring. Faramir could see his brother, who had chosen the one road leading out of the circle and towards the gate to cut off the Easterlings, but even his defense was faltering under the Eternal’s assault.

 

Faramir jumped onto one of the half burned buildings, racing along the blackened rim of stone to find a good position, as he began to pick off attackers with arrows. The Eternals lived up to their legend, he thought grimly, as he ducked when the fire was returned. To kill one of them, it took three to four Gondorian soldiers, a price they could hardly afford to pay.

 

Coming up to shoot again, he began to understand what his brother was doing. While Boromir and his men cut off the Easterling advance, the remaining troops from the third ring flooded back to the Gate of Silence. They were giving up on the third ring. Faramir tried to not let it get to him, but one third of the city was lost, a battlefield of burning buildings and smoldering corpses. In less than a week the city had paid a brutal price for opposing the Shadow. At least, he thought grimly, as he fired another arrow to strike down an Easterling, they had fought a battle that no one would soon forget, and they’d extract a price from the Shadow that would make them deem the purchase too dear.

 

Down in the square Boromir pushed forward, forcing the Easterlings a few steps back, with Kíli and Dwalin flanking him. Together they were like a rock in a stormy ocean of blood. And for a moment the sight of them gave Faramir hope that they might push back the Easterling advance altogether, but it was not to be. Boromir’s aggressive attack had merely been a ploy, to make the Easterlings focus on him and the fight in the street, not somewhere else. And no matter how many of them he killed, in the end they had to retreat to the gate.

 

TRB

 

Boromir heard the heavy gate crash closed behind him and he saw the exhausted, stumbling troop that had made it back with him. Many of them were scarcely able to stand; even Kíli was catching his breath. A number of soldiers had simply collapsed against the walls of the gate, too tired to move. Boromir walked over to Veryan, grasping his arm and pulled him up. “On your feet, soldier. This is not over yet.” He could see Veryan’s eyes widen, but the Swan Knight pulled it together swiftly.

 

“If you have any strategy for them, I’d like to hear it,” he snapped, anger flaring in his eyes. “We can’t hold against them.”

 

Anger rose inside Boromir. He would not have any defeatism, not from Veryan, nor anyone else. His hand curled around the hilt of the black sword he still wielded, when he felt Kíli’s hand on his wrist. “We are not fighting an ordinary army here, Boromir, we are fighting a legend.” The dwarf’s deep voice easily calmed Boromir’s rage and distracted him from his disappointment with Veryan’s momentary weakness.

 

“A legend? How so? They are another army, a good one I will admit, but they are still mortal, no matter how much black magic was worked upon them.” He followed Kíli a few steps away to the end of the archway, allowing Veryan to recover his exhausted troop on his own.

 

“But they are a legend. Your people have heard of them for decades. The Eternals, the Invincible Legion, the best army in the world… They are not mortals to your men, and it works against us.” Kíli had leaned against the cornerstone of the gate and took the waterskin Bifur gave him with a grateful nod, drinking some, then passing it on to Boromir.

 

Albeit he hardly felt thirst, Boromir drank a few gulps, realizing he had been thirsty after all. “So we need to break their legend, is that what you are saying?” It made sense, in a way. Fear was a weapon and it worked both ways.

 

“Captain!” A young soldier came sprinting their direction, almost stumbling, using his singed spear to support himself as he hastened on. When he came closer Boromir could see the black mars of smoke on his skin, the singed hair and the gory gashes that cut through the armor. He also could place the face. Celandir belonged with sixth banner of the Tower Guard, stationed on the far side of fourth ring. He should not be in such a shape.

 

He did not wait for the young man’s report. “What section of the wall is faltering?” he asked, already gesturing Veryan to chase up his men more swiftly.

 

“They came over the walls near the Seer’s square and… somehow they made it through the small gate. No one saw anything; they were upon us suddenly… the Eternals…” The words came in gasps. Even though Celandir tried to speak properly, he was breathing so hard that it was a wonder he managed to speak at all.

 

Something inside Boromir went cold. The two serpents attack. It was an Easterling strategy he had read about, but had never seen executed like that. But this had to be it. “You did good, Celandir,” he said encouragingly to the younger soldier. “Catch your breath, then find Thoroniâr and have him send seventh and ninth banner down to Plaza of Springs.” He turned around. “Veryan, bring all you can. We need to end this swiftly!”

 

He did not need to ask, because what dwarves were still in this part of the defense were already gathering up with Kíli, though most of them were up helping to block access to fifth ring, in case fourth ring broke too swiftly. Together they raced through the winding streets towards the fallen section of the wall. The fourth ring already lay at the steep sides of the Guard-hill and most of the sharp angle tilted upwards. The only relief in this was that it would make attacks by Drakhár harder on the handlers, not that Boromir had many illusions on that point. He had seen Shakurán guide his Drakhár through the steep grounds of Morgul Vale with practiced ease. But everything that slowed the enemy just a little was good right now.

 

When they reached Plaza of Springs, Boromir could already smell the smoke and see the burning buildings around the small gate. The Eternals had pushed inwards quickly, tearing apart the defenders, though their storm was not directed at the fifth gate but… Boromir’s heart almost stopped. The small gate was the only exception to the strict “one wall, one gate” rule in the city, to allow for swifter access to the Houses of Healing, and that was where the storm was directed; across Plaza of Springs and towards the doorway in the wall that surrounded the Houses of Healing.

 

“Faramir.” Boromir knew his brother with him, he did not need to look. “Take your men and half of Veryan’s and see to evacuating the Houses of Healing. I’ll hold them off.”

 

“Even with fresh troops… Boromir, you have the mass of the Eternals on your hands!” There was doubt and worry in Faramir’s voice as he spoke.

 

“I know.” Boromir had no words of encouragement left. “May the Light protect you, brother.” He turned back towards the Plaza. There was no chance to bottle up the Eternals’ advance somewhere; the wide square with the great fountain did not lend itself to such a strategy. So they’d need something else, something to slow the Enemy… no, to force his attention somewhere else.

 

Boromir sprinted forward and attacked the Eternal’s advance group right by the fountain. They were so surprised that their first defense was slower than usual and he did not care. The black sword in his hand buried itself in the chest of the first. He yanked it free, beheading a second and a third fell from the blade in Kíli’s hand. Boromir exhaled hard, letting his anger uncoil inside himself, the rage and the rush of killing. He did not wait for them to regroup, but attacked their next formation before they knew what was upon them. It was a whirlwind of blades, of steel clashing and bodies falling. The black sword in his hands was the perfect weapon, cutting through their armor like it was nothing. It never dulled, no matter how many lives were lost on the dark steel until the runes engraved into the blade shone darkly red with the blood running over them.

 

More Eternals pushed at them, regaining their footing swiftly. Boromir did not slow down, nor did he allow himself to be forced into the defensive again. He kept on with the attacks, always there where they did not quite expect it, following no logic they could understand, except of weeding out more and more of them.

 

A scream from behind him made him turn around. Veryan and very few of his men were still holding the access to the Houses of Healing, but they were faltering as the Eternals increased the pressure on them. Boromir saw Veryan slip and fall under an attack and while the Swan Knight came up again only moments later, he saw the slow parry that almost came too late. He sighed. Veryan might sometimes give up easily, but he fought his best and he could not let a friend die.

 

Faster than he thought he could Boromir cut down his own attackers, racing across their still dying bodies towards Veryan, getting the back of the attackers that were pressing on him. From the corner of his eye he saw Kíli landing the first attack on that group. The dwarf fought with a grim fervor that bespoke the fire that had carried his people through their wars since the dawn of time. He ducked under one attack and rammed his blade into the gut of one of the attackers, while Boromir sent the other down in blood. This was how they fought, always in lockstep, always attacking, and never for one moment slowing down.

 

When they reached Veryan, Boromir could see that the Swan Knight had managed to bring his faltering men back into formation. Maybe he had been too hard on Veryan; he fought well and could not be held responsible for his limited strength. “How many more do they have?” Veryan’s voice was clear, if grim.

 

“Not enough to waste them on us,” Boromir quipped back when a shout alerted him to a new approaching formation. Another group of Eternals was advancing on them and with them Boromir spotted one with a pale horse mane in his helmet; their leader. He recalled what Kíli had said to him earlier, about their legend. It was time to end it.

 

He advanced without thinking, three steps before his men. His attack was aimed at only one man, and the Easterlings understood. Their own honor did not allow them to evade such challenge. The leader charged at him, their blades clashing with horrible power, sending a painful tremor through Boromir’s arm. It took only one bout for him to know he was faced with a superior swordsman, maybe the best he had ever fought, and his opponent knew it. For he pushed at him hard. His attacks came down like a hailstorm, forcing Boromir to parry or dodge swiftly. Boromir brought up his blade and caught the last attack hard, the curved blade of his opponent sliding along the dark steel and crashing into the guard of his sword. For the space of a breath they both stood still, locked in a silent duel before Boromir broke free and brought his sword around in one powerful circle.

 

Wordlessly he pushed forward. The first attacks still came too slow before he found his pacing, the full rush of battle, and began attacking hard. He did not go for forms or finesse, just for efficient and strong attacks. He did not care whether he was wounded because his own cover was flawed; this was not a fight a defender would win. No defender ever won a war, only an attacker did. Their blades sang when they met and the echoes of steel clashing on steel echoed through the plaza. Boromir did not hear it; all his focus was on this one fight, this one battle, blood pounding in his ears and he did not hear his own breath rattling in his lungs, as he upped the speed anew, pouring all his strength, all that he had into a series of fierce attacks. Again their blades met and this time Boromir swiped the sword from his opponent’s hand. It spun through the air and landed far out of reach.

 

With another Enemy, with Shakurán, he might have given him the chance to recover the weapon. With him he might have followed the rules of honor, of single combat, but not this time. Not with this foe, not when he stood with the back to the very House that shielded his father, that shielded his men recovering from the terrible battle. Boromir did not wait. He never gave his opponent a chance to recover or gain a new weapon. He took one step forward and the black sword sank deeply into his chest, sending him down to the many bodies littering the square.

 

The silence was deafening, like the shock was settling on both sides. Boromir could see the Eternals like frozen in place, their disbelief rendering them stunned for the moment. “Archers!” he bellowed. “Everyone attack!” Carried by the rush, the moment of hope, they followed him, Veryan and Kíli and all those still standing. They came bearing down on the Eternals, who were too slow to react, and when they regained their footing, it was too late; they already were pushed towards the small gate, losing their foothold inside the fourth ring. With their leadership in momentary chaos, the shock still upon them, their fighting became uncoordinated.

 

Boromir grinned, as his blade greedily ate its way through those getting in his way. Kíli had been right; it had been their legend that needed breaking, their morale. When they reached the small gate, Thoroniâr and the reinforcements reached them. Always quick to think on his feet, Thoroniâr had not just brought the two banners, but whatever else could be scrounged up from broken units on the way.

 

“Good thinking, Thoron.” Boromir gestured ahead. “Follow me. Let’s push those bastards out of our city!” He knew that he sounded crazy, but they did not doubt him and he could feel it. The flame was still burning inside him, the storm had not abated yet, and it would carry him still. He allowed it to happen, taking point as they pushed back into third ring, cutting through the retreating Eternals and whatever other troops got in their way.

 

The world almost lost cohesion for Boromir. He became one whirl of fighting, killing and bodies falling. He hardly knew how many foes there were and sometimes hardly knew direction. In such moments Kíli’s clarity guided him, helping him to find the path and regain his bearings. Even though he still did not know how and when they had reached the broken city gate with the last Enemy troops flooding out, towards their camp.

 

Inside what remained of the broken arch Boromir stopped. Only now he noticed his breath was flying. Even though he felt no true exhaustion, he felt some echo of tiredness. The troops behind him stood, but many were exhausted, many were beyond that, but they stood, faith and exhilaration having carried them that far. But no cheers rose, for a black cloud fell from the dark skies and an icy gust of wind brushed past them, as the wings of a mighty fell beast descended upon them. Boromir looked up and saw the Nazgûl bearing down on them. Beside him the stones turned alive, blue flame rising from them, illuminating the night.

###  _You fool._ _This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain._

He icy voice of the Nazgûl echoed through his mind like a whip, like the torment of old reawaking inside him. It was like he was again alone in the dungeons under the dread city, but before he could crumble, he felt a warmth inside his mind, a flame that he knew to be Kíli. He had not been alone then, and he was not now. It had been the blessing of his life that had not to bear these horrors alone, that he had a friend who would not shy away from them.

 

“I shall not let you pass.” Boromir felt his own voice was hoarse, rough, but he did not care. “This city is ours and thus it will remain. Begone, lest you want to dare the fire, Wraith!”

 

The beast’s wings flapped and there was a silence, like even the Nazgûl was baffled by such boldness. And then he heard it: horns, the sound of great horns, deep great horns of the North echoing out in the vale against the sides of dark Mindolluin. The Riders of Rohan had come and with them came a new morning.

 

Boromir saw the Nazgûl pull his dread steed up into the skies, chasing back to the center of the field, but there was no relief in his heart. The Enemy still had a vast field army standing outside the gates, and they had held back on Mordor’s Elite forces, allowing the Eternals to do the storming. Rohan and the Elves would need all the support Minas Tirith could muster if they were to win this battle. “Thoroniâr.” Boromir turned to his comrade. “Call all fighters we have left down here, everyone. This battle is far from over.”

 

TRB

 

Shakurán had just received the reports about the disaster in the city and he had a hard time holding back on his anger. He had warned them that Boromir was a resourceful leader and once pressed to defend his men to the last, he’d become a very dangerous force. Shakurán had been against the attack on the Houses of Healing, knowing it would strike a nerve with the Captain of Gondor, but the Eternals had known better and this was the outcome.

 

In the middle of it all came the call of the horns and riders appeared along the northern ridges of Pelennor fields. With no direct orders from the Witch King, Shakurán went with the sensible battle plan: three fronts, and each with a competent leader, in case they lost cohesion or communication in the chaos. He was about to issue the last orders when he felt it, the icy brush against his mind, just a touch, like the winds on the plains on a winter morning, but enough to herald the Witch King’s call. He closed his eyes, letting go of the world around him, allowing the shadows to come closer in a world where only their spirits walked.

 

Like always it was like standing right opposite the ghostly form of the Lord of the Nazgûl. He had been a proud man in life, a great King of the Númenorans, and it still echoed in his pale form. Shakurán bowed. It was strange to do so in such a place, but habits were hard to break. “My Lord? Gondor’s reinforcements are arriving.”

 

“I know, I have expected them.” The Witch King’s voice was almost amused. “We have long known that they would come, Rohan, the Elves… They all are throwing their strength towards saving this city. It shall be their doom.”

 

Shakurán frowned, or at least he thought he did; he never was able to tell how it translated into his appearance in this place. “Their numbers are enough to give them a chance against even this army. We have too many Orcs and Southrons and still too little…”

 

A cool laughter interrupted him. “Did you think I had not thought of that? Shakurán, for all your courage, you sometimes fail to foresee what will be and what can be. I _want_ them in this field, I _want_ them to break through unto the walls of this city. For you are my ultimate weapon. Wait until they are close, until all their armies are assembled on the fields and then finish what you began, release the gift you carry. One man to defeat all their armies. Your sacrifice will break what strength the world has left. Your scheming little brother never had a clue that such weapon is nothing to take one city with, but to break the Enemy entirely.”

 

And now Shakurán understood. The plan was ingenious, lethal and it would work… They would crush the Enemy with his own hopes, his own confidence. Not even the Lord of the Morning could stop them.

 

“Now you understand. When the time comes, do not wait for my order, but do what needs to be done. You have enough mind to know the moment by yourself.”

 

Why was it that the Lord of the Nazgûl would show him such a trust in these last moments, Shakurán wondered. Or was it simply that he assumed to be busy at the right moment?

 

“Be proud, Shakurán. Your sacrifice will be the beginning of the Shadow’s Greatest Rise.”

 

The communication ended abruptly, and Shakurán found himself back in his body on the fields. A cold wind swept over him as the Fell Beast passed by towards their Eastern front. The battle had just begun.

 

TRB

 

The Enemy had only little in terms of riders, but his foot fighters numbered in the thousands. Éowyn brought her tired horse around as she slew another Southron, the sword heavy in her hands from hours of battle. After the second clash of the armies, the field had been torn asunder, shattering into many battles, a chaos no one could understand, let alone coordinate. And the Enemy was relentless.

 

To her left she could see what was left of Theodred’s riders swiped apart by the attacks of a huge winged beast. They were faltering and in dire need of help, somewhere to the west the Elves had pinned down the Easterling legions, preventing them from breaking through. Small favors, if there were any. Éowyn raised her sword, signaling whatever riders were still in this part of the field to follow her, as she spurred her horse to race towards Theodred’s troops. Where was Éomer? The last time she had seen him was before the huge winged beasts had attacked and shattered their entire formation.

 

Theodred had taken off towards that hill, because he had seen a faltering Gondorian formation there. But now he was trapped. Behind her she heard the thunder of hooves as the riders followed her. As she glanced to the side she saw the dark shape of Adheler, Brithonin’s horse, and another was Haleth’s. They were her own troops and others, whoever was left. She saw the fell beast again dive down on the hill when she looked ahead. Theodred’s horse reared up, high in the air, and tossed him off. He fell and did not come up again. Most of his men were fallen or chased apart. How far was this field? Éowyn knew her horse was running as fast as it could, but the field was so vast.

 

Again the fell beast dived, trying for Theodred, she was sure of it, but two men stood in its way. As she came closer, she could see them, standing back to back, in the path of this terrible foe. Was this Gríma, she wondered. It was the strangest thing to see him fight, or defend Theodred like this. The beast grasped him, to throw him in the air like others before, but the second man, she assumed it was Aeonar, jumped. He grabbed the claw of the mighty beast and rammed his sword into the ankle of the creature. The beast shrieked and both men fell, tumbling down to land amongst the dead on the field.

 

The horses raced up the hill and Éowyn dismounted at once; she would not make the mistake of bringing her horse too close to the beast. The Nazgûl swooped over her and down on her riders. Many had not been as swift to dismount and the formation broke when their mounts panicked and ran.

 

Éowyn scrambled uphill and found Theodred, lying in his blood, half impaled on a blade rising from the ground. Beside him knelt a stranger in Gondorian armor, trying to aid him. He too was wounded and looked like he was ready to collapse, but still he found the strength to assist Theodred. “You bandage him,” she called out to the tawny-haired man. “I will take care of that beast.” Her heart was racing like it was an old battle-drum, but she had no room for fears, or for doubts. Theodred needed her, needed her strong.

 

The beast turned on them again. She had seen that swooping attack before and knew she only had one chance. Instead of retreating, she raced forward, using the height distance the hill provided before jumping. Her blade cleaved through the air as she struck the beast’s head. Curling up she landed on the ground. Armors of dead men hit her, her ribs burned in pain, almost cutting her breath off. She pushed herself up, leaning on her sword, retreating several steps back, to be in line between Theodred and that beast.

 

A black figure rose from the saddle of the beast. _Do not come between the Nazgûl and his prey, young fool._ The voice was like a whip to her mind, an icy echo of something dreadful, like a nightmare from a legend having come alive.

 

“Do what you will.” Éowyn felt the tremor in her own voice, as she clasped the blade with both hands. “But you shall not touch my brother.” For Theodred was the younger brother of her heart, and the King she would protect to her dying day. “Begone if you be not Deathless.”

 

She saw the heavy mace come toward her and ducked under the first attack. The second she parried, her sword shrieking under the strain as cold fire ran through her bones. The pain seemed to eat at her very core, but she did not let go, pushing the ghastly wraith back. The next bout shattered her blade to the hilt. Éowyn tossed the useless remains aside and frantically looked around for something she could use, when she heard a blade drawn. It sizzled through the air and landed beside her.

 

Dodging another attack of the fell mace, she rolled over the hard grounds, grabbing the sword as she got up. The blade vibrated in her hands, like fresh anger seeping through it. It shone brightly as the light itself. She charged at the black creature, bringing the weapon down hard on the mace. Again the cold fire ripped into her bones, but this time the mace shattered, falling to pieces, some of them so sharp they penetrated her armor. She did not pay it any heed. For a moment the Wraith stood like frozen and she raised the sword, thrusting it upwards into the dark form. The pain became almost unbearable, but the blade shone brighter than ever before as the dark creature shriveled and collapsed with a shriek. The cold voice rang out one last time to never be heard again in this world.

 

Éowyn fell to her knees, all strength seeping from her, her body shaking in pain. The sword slipped from her hands as she sank to the ground. Hasty steps crunched on the armor of the dead orcs around her, and she saw the tawny-haired soldier kneel down by her side. “Theodred?” she asked weakly. He should take care of him, she’d come around in a moment or so.

 

“I pulled the blade and stemmed the bleeding, but he needs a healer…” The voice of the soldier sounded strange. Why did he sound so awed.

 

“Who are you?” She tried to sit up, but almost collapsed again. Her body felt cold, like she had been drenched in ice water. “Your sword, it saved me.”

 

“I am Faramir, my Lady, and you saved us all.” She frowned. No, this battle was not done. “Theodred… can you…” She coughed. Why did her body fail her like that?

 

“My lady!” Brithonin dismounted her horse beside her, so she had managed to not be thrown off the panicked beast. The girl knelt down on her other side, reaching for her hand. “My lady, you are wounded.”

 

“It is unimportant, Birthonin.” Éowyn found some strength in her voice again. Finally she could place the soldier’s name, though her mind was still slow. “You will assist Faramir to bring King Theodred off the field. Your horse can carry both. Do you understand me? You must bring them to wherever healers can be found.”

 

“But you, my Lady? I can’t just leave you.” Brithonin’s protest was feeble and there were tears shining in her eyes.

 

“The King’s life depends on you,” Éowyn almost snapped. “You can come back for me later. Stop sniveling, Brithonin. You are a soldier of Rohan, not a frightened milkmaid.” Her words had the desired effect, because the girl straightened up and nodded. “I will be back for you soon.” Éowyn exhaled in relief; they were going to save Theodred. Exhausted she closed her eyes. She just needed a moment to rest…

 

TRB

 

Shakurán heard the Witch King’s death shriek. He could feel him die, the link that all his soldiers shared with their Lord severed brutally. He almost collapsed to his knees as the pain washed over him. Only the strong hands of Idrakhán steadied him. “We need to regroup.” Idrakhán’s voice came through to him like through a haze of mist.

 

“No.” Shakurán pulled himself up, standing steadily. “We go through with his plan, his last plan. I take it you were informed? Khamûl would have known.”

 

There was a hard moment as their eyes met, but then Idrakhán nodded. “Of course I knew, and I was ordered to make sure you do it. Brother…” His voice trailed off, and in this one moment Shakurán could detect vulnerability in his older brother.

 

“Do not worry,” he said grimly. “I need to be closer to their center, about where Boromir is just butchering our Haradrim friends, so they all will be affected. You meanwhile better see what troops we can pull off the field, or they will be caught up in a frenzy.”

 

Idrakhán sighed, then raised his chin. “I’ll do what is needful, brother. May the Darkness welcome you home.” He turned to take care of the task at hand. Shakurán watched him go, knowing this was all the goodbye they would ever have. Maybe their true goodbyes had been said a long time ago, when their father had first taken them to training. Back then Shakurán would have happily remained in that valley by the dying river, but it had not been and Idrakhán had been eager for the training to begin. Maybe their true goodbyes had been said there, more than thirty years ago.

 

He turned towards where he could see the Gondorians push through the Haradrim. It would not help them, for Idrakhán would sacrifice all the remaining Orc legions – a good dozen was left – to cover the retreat for the Elite forces he could pull out. It did not matter if some Orcs died in a frenzy. Shakurán began his run towards the hill Boromir was holding. He wanted to open himself to the night, to pull in the darkness he needed to release his soul into the sacrifice, but a part of him could not. He did not want to see Boromir’s shock when he realized what was happening, he did not want their last duel be one ended by tricks and sorcery. He had always wanted that last fight between them, that last duel, not some gruesome trick played on him.

 

Shakurán grabbed his blade more firmly and charged up the hill, towards Boromir. _I hope you remember to kill me, old friend. This time you have to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. I am amazed how you always put up with my weird sentences. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* 
> 
> Nitpickers may note that I changed the ring of the city where the Houses of Healing are located – I simply had troubles imagining the main healing point being so far away from the possible action.


	34. A ray of light

The battle was shifting; the Eastern troops began to pull back, they were changing strategies, he could almost sense it. He could not say what had changed, and he doubted it was only the fall of the Witch King. Command had moved smoothly back to his Easterling minions. A scream alerted him to the situation around the foothill where the Haradrim had perished. He could see Shakurán charge at them, cutting his path through several Gondorians. He came alone, no troops to support him, no attack to smash Boromir’s remaining forces. Only him – a challenge, and a distraction, he was sure of it. There could only be one reason for Shakurán to do what he did: he was giving whoever was in charge now time, time that Boromir would be distracted by fighting him, a sacrifice to give his comrades a chance to regroup.

 

“Kíli, see what forces we can pull back to Wildgrass Howe. This won’t be the end of it.” It was all he had the time to say before he advanced downhill and towards Shakurán. The Easterling’s first attack was fierce, almost wild. Boromir only just blocked the first few strikes with his blade. In all the years of war he had never seen Shakurán fight like this, like a cornered animal; no restraint, no tactics, only one blind, lethal whirl of attack.

 

He stumbled backwards, almost falling under a fierce attack. Pushing himself up, Boromir saw Shakurán had retreated one step, waiting for him to recover. “Going soft, Son of the Sea Kings?” There was something fierce and dark in the low voice, something that alarmed Boromir instantly, and sobered what anger he might have felt. Shakurán was not here to fight, nor to add another insane duel to their list of fights… He was here to die and he had chosen Boromir to kill him. Whatever the reason, whatever pressures drove him, he had decided that it was by Boromir’s hand he wanted to die.

 

And Boromir was not going to let him. “In your dreams, Easterling.” He rushed against Shakurán, attacking just as aggressively. Their blades clashed and for a few moments it was a wild dance of swords and steel that almost convinced Boromir he was wrong, but then, Shakurán did not make use of a mistake Boromir made, simply overlooking it. It was not like him, it was not him at all. Boromir feigned a turn, causing Shakurán to overbalance and stumble. He spun around, landing a kick against the Easterling’s knee. His legs buckled as he fell. Boromir whirled the blade around in his hand and brought it down hilt-first against Shakurán’s head. It was only one heavy strike, but it was enough to crumble him entirely, leaving him on the ground unconscious. “I will not be your killer, my friend,” Boromir said softly.

 

“Close ranks!” Kíli’s shout rang out over the sudden noise of drums, Orc drums echoing over the field. As he looked up Boromir finally understood the change in tactics. With the Easterlings pulling out, the Orcs flooded the field, used to cover the retreat of what remained of the Eastern Elite forces. With their own troops scattered all across the field, the defense would be uneven and the black flood of Orcs bespoke of legions, entire fresh legions of Orcs.

 

Suddenly Boromir felt tired like never before. They had come through a battle the likes of whichhe was sure had not been fought in this age, they had defeated more odds than he could name, and still the Orcs would crush them in the end. He closed ranks with Kíli, who tilted his head to look up. “Hope,” Kíli said softly. “From darkness rises a new morn’…”

 

“And so the darkness dies.” Boromir knew the words, and while he did not see much hope, knowing that Kíli had not given up yet gave him the strength to not give in. The Orcs advanced across the field, a black flood, fanning out in several directions, when high above them the clouds broke apart and a bright ray of light fell from the gloomy skies. And like it was an answer to the light and the suddenly faltering Orc drums. Boromir saw something bright sparkling in the sudden ray of sun. Sails, white sails of ships upon Anduin river. He could not say how many or whence they had come, but from their decks flooded an army; a ghostly pale army of horses and men, of pale fighters and mistlike banners, and ahead of them he saw a familiar figure on horseback. In the hours of greatest darkness the King had returned to Gondor.

 

TRB

 

Aragorn stood on what had been the fields of a prosperous land in peacetimes. Now it was a battlefield slowly falling silent. The last of the Orcs had died, and the remaining Eastern troops were retreating across the river. He felt a gust of wind as Heóstar’s pale horse appeared beside him. With him were Raidán and Invar, their weapons still in hand. “Shall we pursue them?” Heóstar pointed East towards the retreating enemy. “They are not across the river.”

 

“Let them run and carry the tale. It might gain us a few additional weeks before they return in force.” Keldarn appeared as well, his ghostly swords already sheathed on his back. “And return they will, or I know nothing of the Night Riders.”

 

Aragorn looked from one to the other. During the days of riding with the ghost army he had gotten used to their presence, their different personalities. Heóstar was wild, sometimes almost vengeful in temper, where Raidán and Invar were calmer and Keldarn was a grim warrior. “No,” he said. “Let them go. Are the others with you?” He knew not how they communicated, but at his words Earcal and the others appeared before him.

 

“Your allies are beginning to search the field for survivors,” Earcal reported. “We cannot help the wounded, but our people will guide those who are searching to those who are still alive, for we know how to find them.”

 

It was a gift that only the dead could have; to know and sense who was still alive and maybe guide other living there. Aragorn’s heart grew heavy. Strange though it might sound, he had gotten used to their company during the last days and he’d have liked them to stay. “Your war is not over yet,” Heóstar said, throwing back his head in a defiant gesture. “Keldarn is right, the Night Riders will not let you get away with such victory. Your people are not yet safe.”

 

He was right, and Aragorn knew that more war and battle lay ahead of them. And he was sorely tempted to not release their oaths. With such an army by his side no one could stand against him, maybe not even the Lord of Barad-Dûr himself and he was not even forcing them, they were offering. He shook his head. If he used them like that, then what difference was there between him and Isildur, or between him and the Shadow? Force was the only thing they had known from either side. “You did what you swore to do,” he said softly. “And I deem your oath fulfilled. You are free to go where your souls wish you to. May no further chains bind your sojourn in this world or the next.”

 

He saw Raidán and Invar kneel, followed by Heóstar, who scowled at them. Keldarn too knelt, while Earcal faded away with his hand raised in a last greeting. Some of the others faded, while Gyr and Scyrane knelt as well, and Aragorn felt a surge, like a fierce storm of wind envelop them all. He could not move, nor shout, as his body was bound by a force he could neither see nor name. Before him the field dimmed, melting away before his very eyes until he saw them all standing under the vast dome of a dark hall, a hall so wide he could not see the end. Their forms were less ghostly, less faint here, looking up Aragorn saw a spark of light at the end of the hall, if this hall could have an end at all. A bright figure sitting on a stone throne, be he guardian or judge, Aragorn did not know, but the sheer presence shook his soul to the core. It lasted only for a second, but it felt like a lifetime passing him by before he suddenly again stood on fields of Pelennor and the feeling of dread faded slowly. He looked around him frantically. What was happening here?

 

He saw Raidán and Invar, still on their knees, but their ghostly forms had melted away, giving way to their physical forms, living and real. The same went for the others. Shouts of surprise rose around them, where suddenly warriors had appeared out of thin air. “Rise, please,” he urged the men around him. “How…?”

 

Raidán and Invar rose. Invar stumbled slightly and Heóstar had to grab his arm to help him stand. Invar smiled at his comrade. “You had to follow us, of course, you stubborn ox.” There was a wealth of affection in his voice and Heóstar grinned back at him.

 

“I wouldn’t leave this one,” he pointed to Aragorn, “alone with his war. I still have a score to settle with the Night Riders.”

 

And suddenly Aragorn understood. Even though he could not begin to fathom how it was possible, what power, or what mercy had brought this about? “You chose to stay?” He had not even believed it could be possible. All he had hoped for was to give them peace, sending them to wherever the souls of men slept until the final days. He had never imagined they could be returned to life. He could only think of one power granting such mercy and silently send his thanks to Mandos for having looked kindly on the souls of those so long lost.

 

“With the curse lifted, we were free and were given the choice to sojourn in this world… or the next. The choice to finally die and sleep, or return and fulfill the life we threw away when we broke the Oath.” Raidán replied, his eyes smiling. “Some of our brethren chose to rest, to sleep and find their people again in the world beyond, but we chose to stay. We will follow you as long as you’ll have us.”

 

TRB

 

The gate of Minas Tirith that Aragorn remembered so well, the splendid white gate gleaming in the light of the sun, was reduced to a scorched pile of rubble. The breath hitched in his throat when he saw the shattered walls and the scorched buildings of the lower ring. He knew how to read those signs: the fighting must have been brutal. The sight made him feel a little ashamed of his one-time doubts in the strength the world of Men might possesses. What he saw here spoke of strength and of a fierce will not to give in.

 

“No, send anyone who can still walk there on his own to the market halls to be patched up,” he heard a very familiar voice. “Everyone with severe wounds goes to the Houses of Healing.” Aragorn turned around to see Boromir talk to some of his men, who had reported to him. “And Veryan, get yourself to a healer. I can’t have you die on me.” The words were directed at a Swan Knight, who bowed and retreated, his slow walk betraying he was more than just injured. Aragorn saw Kíli stride up to Boromir. “Dwalin reports that the Undercity is cleared out. Our healers are meeting up with the others at the market halls.”

 

Aragorn could see change in both of his friends as he walked towards them. There were not just the traces of exhaustion, of merciless fighting and injuries, but something deeper. It was like a shadow had fallen upon them. Or maybe he was just seeing the change the battle had wrought upon them. They had seen him coming and Boromir bowed slightly when Aragorn reached them. The gesture sent a twinge through Aragorn. In Rivendell they had agreed that they would not speak of ranks, of what they might be until the war was over and based on that they had become friends. Would he lose a friend to gain a follower? He did not want it, especially not from Boromir. He forestalled any formal words by lightly touching Boromir’s shoulder. “None of that yet, my friend. You agreed to not speak of my birth rank until the war was over and I am holding you to that.”

 

He could see Boromir’s startled glance and then the man shook his head. “Others might not agree, Aragorn. Your coming saved the city. We could not have stemmed the tide much longer.”

 

“You held out longer than I dared to hope.” Aragorn’s eyes returned to the field. How many had died here? How many more would follow? “How… how is the city?” He could not hold back on the question now that he saw the White City so hurt, so scorched. It came as a shock.

 

“First to third ring fell to the fighting,” Boromir replied. “They burned during the battle. We had breakthroughs on the fourth ring, but pushed them out again…” His voice trailed off when a group of riders came cantering their way. Most riders had wounded before them in the saddle. The first horse to stop was a tall, dark horse with a girl in the saddle, holding gently onto an unconscious warrior. “Brithonin,” Boromir walked up to her. “You bring more wounded?”

 

“’Tis the Lady Éowyn, my Lord,” Brithonin’s voice was shaky, “I brought King Theodred and Lord Faramir to the healers in your city just as she ordered, but when I found her again, she was all cold and she hardly breathes… There is no mark upon her, but she is barely alive.”

 

“She fought the Nazgûl?” Aragorn walked closer, gently taking her hand. He could feel the cold, the deep echoes of the black breath upon her. “Keep her close and keep her warm, Brithonin,” he ordered the young warrior on the horse. “Boromir, can you show me where your healers are? She needs help and swiftly so.”

 

Without further ado Boromir took the lead, guiding them through the broken streets of the lower rings, towards the Houses of Healing. They took the direct path towards the small gate in the fourth wall. “You will have to inform your father of my coming?” Aragorn asked, feeling that this better was addressed before long.

 

When Boromir looked to him, he was surprised to see a pained, restless expression in those green eyes. “My father resides in the Houses of Healing, poisoned by an assassin during the battle.” Boromir’s voice was pressed, shaken. “And he knew of your coming since the day I returned.”

 

Denethor poisoned by assassins? What had transpired in this city during the fighting, Aragorn wondered. He could feel that there was more to it than just the battle. Silently he resolved to see the Denethor and whoever else was in bad condition, once he had helped Éowyn. They reached the Houses of Healing. Several healers were outside, sorting between those sent on to the market halls and those brought into the Houses of Healing. An elderly woman eyed Boromir sharply. “More wounded, I take it? Leave them there, Captain. We will see to them at once,” she said, her voice sharp, and Aragorn had the distinct feeling she did not want Boromir much closer to her charges.

 

“This is not the time for arguments, Ioreth.” Boromir’s voice held a hint of temper. “I shall not darken your halls with my presence for long. But you will give Lord Aragorn any help he asks for and allow him to see whomever of your patients he wishes to.”

 

“As you say it, Captain.” There was something distinctly stand-offish about the woman, Aragorn noticed. But she turned to the riders with the wounded, helping to get them down and swiftly inspected their state.

 

“The Light help the poor girl,” she said, when she saw Éowyn. “Another one… There is little we can do for her, I fear.”

 

“She is not yet lost,” Aragorn told her. “Do you have some Athelas amongst your stores?” The aides already carried the wounded in. In the middle of the chaos the healers worked with the quiet efficiency that their profession demanded.

 

“Athelas… I will have to ask the Warden, but I doubt it. I never heard of the name,” Ioreth mused. “Though I feel I should have heard of it.”

 

“Kingsfoil,” Aragorn supplied as they walked into the halls of healing.

 

“Kingsfoil!” Ioreth stopped in her tracks. “We use it to clean tainted air, but it does not much else, albeit…” She looked thoughtfully. “Maybe for you it does.” And she hurried off to the stores.

 

Aragorn saw Brithonin and an aide laying Éowyn down between other wounded under the arches of a wide yard. There were so many waiting for treatment, many who would die… “Brithonin.” He knew the girl was exhausted, but she was still standing. “Get your horse and ride down to the fields, find Elrohir and tell him that we need all healers that can be found here.” Elrohir would ask the elven army and bring whomever he could. It might not save all of these people, but it would save more than could be hoped for.

 

TRB

 

Another patrol marched across the dusty path of the Morgai and Anarion lay pressed to the ground behind some thorny bushes and watched them go. The hot, dusty wind was full of ash. Sight was greatly reduced, but not so much for him not to see the camps lining the dry hills of Morgai. During the night they had seen the fires. There were campfires all across Morgai, the plains of Gorgoroth, all the way up to Udûn. But now, up close, he could tell that this was more troops than the black lands had ever marshaled before. These were armies that would crush anything standing in their way before long.

 

Heavy steps made him duck again, pressing his body against the dirty grounds, hoping that his cloak and the dust would provide him with enough cover. A huge black Orc hastened past him, his steps causing the patrol to stop. “Why are running like that, creature?” The patrol were Easterlings, Morgul Legion, and, as Anarion could tell by their black scale mail armors, Khamûl’s personal legion.

 

The Orc stopped, his stance still aggressive, but he deferred to them. “Word from the Ancient City. This is for the Captain and only him. Some big mischief is afoot. Troops are coming back; they overran the tower, stinkin’ Haradrim and others. Word is that Number One is dead.”

 

“Is it? Then you will not mind reporting straight away.” The Easterlings pushed the Orc forward towards the heart of their camp and Anarion breathed a sigh of relief. Could it be that the black armies were retreating? Number One dead? Number One was what the Orcs called the Witch King, but he could not be dead. But maybe he had suffered a defeat? Hope rose like wings inside Anarion’s chest as he crawled back from the pathway and deeper into the thorn bushes, where the elves were hiding.

 

Aelin too had returned. He still wore the armor he had taken from an Easterling he had killed, and from afar he made for a very convincing Easterling. Unfortunately he did not speak the black tongue as good as necessary. “There is no way through,” he said to Anarion. “The entire plain seems to be an army camp. Some unrest rose a few hours ago when news from the battlefield came.”

 

“I heard an Orc claim the Witch King had fallen, and that there were troops retreating back to the Mountains of Shadow,” Anarion said. “But whatever chaos they will cause, it won’t be enough for us to slip past these armies.”

 

“Is there no other way?” Frodo asked softly. “No way to go around them?”

 

“South,” Anarion said thoughtfully. “Along the Thorn of Nurn, past the and along the gap of Gorogorth and then up the arm of Ash, evading Barad-Dûr itself and… You never said where beyond that you needed to go.”

 

“And you do not need to know.” Aelin looked at him, the elf’s eyes cool and calm. “Your advice is sound, and though it will take us several weeks to make the journey, we can survive that long. What is more important…” He gestured back towards the mountains. “Is that you need to get back to Gondor, Anarion.”

 

“Why?” Anarion shook his head. “Though he did not say in so many words, my captain all but commanded me to assist you. Together we stand better chances, especially with you not speaking the Orc tongues well enough to lie your way past them.”

 

“And your Captain will need to know… to know that we are still on the path,” Aelin said firmly. “You need to return to Gondor, Anarion, and find Boromir, or Lord Aragorn, should he have arrived in your city already. Let them know what we are doing and that they need to hold out for several more weeks.”

 

Anarion wanted to ask what secretive elven scheme these three were carrying out, but the Ranger in him knew that he must not ask. A secret he did not know, he could not betray. An answer he had never learned, could not be tortured out of him. “Are you sure?” He hated leaving someone alone in these ashen lands.

 

“No,” Frodo said with a small smile. “But it is the only chance we have. You brought us here so well, you can sneak back and report to Boromir. I… I pray to the Light he can find a way to hold out for so long.”

 

Anarion could see they meant it, and while he did not share their secret quest, he found it hard to part from them again. “The Light shine upon you, as you dare these dark lands,” he said softly. “And may your souls find their way past the shroud of darkness when your hour comes.” It was the only blessing Rangers had for those who walked the ashes of Mordor herself. Under the shadow of a freshly falling night, Anarion began his retreat towards the mountains. He hoped the three would be safe.

 

TRB

 

Night had come to the city again, a natural night coming after a long day, and the light of the moon fell over the gardens of the Houses of Healing. Aragorn welcomed the silence falling over the halls, replacing the frantic haste of hours past. Many who had been severely injured would live. Éowyn was asleep, healing from the ordeal she had gone through, Theodred’s wounds would heal too, though he might take longer to recover and Faramir’s shock from the black breath along with his wounds were on their way to healing as well. There had been others too, and Aragorn felt a quiet satisfaction with the work of the day. Now he was on his way to one particularly stubborn patient, who had refused any attention of the healers while there were wounded fighters to be tended to.

 

Said patient had been placed in a small room by the side of the gardens, out of the way of the hustle and bustle of the main houses. When Aragorn opened the door to the narrow room, he could see the tall, frail figure sitting in a chair, eyes on the window and the night beyond. “I already told you, warden, there is nothing I wish for, nor do I require any help that cannot be of better use elsewhere.” The old man’s voice had changed, but Aragorn recognized the familiar timbre – the same tone of voice – and it woke memories.

 

“There is no one that could use the attention in this moment, and the warden might have given up on arguing,” he said, closing the door behind him. It was strange to see Denethor like this; aged, and frail, his strength sapped from him, though his mind still burned brightly. He was nothing like the vital, strong man Aragorn had argued with on the long road to Umbar.

 

Denethor turned his head, eyes tearing away from the night outside. “Thorongil… Not that you’d ever take orders from anyone, whether they made sense or not,” he said, a sharp sting of humor echoing in his voice.

 

“I told you once, only because an order makes sense it does not have to be the right thing to do.” Aragorn approached him. “And you are still stubborn enough to not accept help easily.”

 

A strange smile curled Denethor’s lips. “Help is a multi-shaped animal, Thorongil, and that too is something we have debated before. Why have you come? The healers already told me that there was Shadow Lotus on the blades, and it slowly eats away what is left of my body. The only merciful thing is that it will spare my mind.” He rasped a laugh. “It should allow me to tell you what you will need to know, before I pass from this world.”

 

“Would you allow me to tend to the injury? It may not be too late just yet.” Aragorn knew the Shadow Lotus. Like many poisons from the East, it relied on a plant deformed by the Shadow, and it could be cured through opposing strength. Elrond had taught him much about it, how to cure the damage the Shadow did to those it touched.

 

“Strange you should ask.” Denethor pushed the cloak from his shoulder, revealing the heavy bandage on his shoulder. “You were never squeamish about helping without being asked to.”

 

“If I recall that right, you had an arrow in your chest and were bleeding out on the deck,” Aragorn replied, biting back a chuckle. Decades had passed and they’d lock horns again. Why did it feel like he had missed the sharp tongued critique? He slowly removed the bandage, seeing what had been done for the wound so far. It would need a poultice to draw the poison from the shoulder. He sent one of the apprentices for hot water and it was soon brought in a stone chalice. Carefully Aragorn dissolved several herbs inside the water: athelas, elf-root, fork-tongue… It was a familiar work, calming in its own way.

 

“’Tis strange to see you again, Thorongil,” Denethor said softly, when the scent of the herbs began to spread around the room. “Boromir told me of you. You must have impressed him deeply. And now that it all is coming to an end, I have to be glad you are here.”

 

“Boromir is a good man.” Aragorn slowly stirred the rapidly thickening brew. “Brave and courageous, ruthless too. He’ll do what is necessary, no matter what. And I know you are hardly happy to see me again.”

 

The old man shook his head. “You do not understand, Thorongil, but that was never your strength either. Gondor needs you, will need you bitterly. Who knows what little time is left to me. And Boromir… The night is coming for him, and while I thought I was prepared for that moment, I cannot deny the pain it brings me. When we both are gone, who knows what fate awaits Faramir?”

 

Pouring the scalding poultice on a clean bandage, Aragorn began to treat the cut in the shoulder. “Darkness? What are you speaking of?” he asked, a little more sharply. “Your sons fought a battle to defend this city. They pushed the Enemy back out before Rohan could even arrive. Without them the city would have fallen.”

 

“Aye, they did, and they are good sons.” Denethor winced when the hot poultice was pressed deep into the cut. “But Boromir… Something changed with him, his fate… It finally begins. His own troops are beginning to call him the Lord of the Morning, rightfully so, I fear. And it will be grist for the mills of Ioreth and likes of her, who would have seen him dead long ago.”

 

Aragorn frowned, but kept his focus on his work. “I noticed she did not seem to like him and did not want him near the wounded, but I assumed that too many of the injured would sneak out of the healers’ care and return to duty with him around.”

 

“Boromir was born in the first hour of light, born with the dragonbane seal upon his arm and these wenches believed it an omen of darkness. They’d have had the baby abandoned.” Denethor shook his head. “They had no idea and still they do not understand. The Lord of the Morning may yet save Gondor, but at what price? It will fall to you to save her from him in the end, I fear.” What strength was left in Denethor burned away and he passed out, falling into a deep, healing slumber.

 

Aragorn finished the fresh bandages carefully and pulled a blanket over the sleeping man. “Do not let dark thoughts disturb your slumber, Denethor, son of Ecthelion. I have faith in your son, and in our people,” Aragorn said softly before he left the room.

 

TRB

 

Shakurán woke in the darkness. The ground under him was hard, of stone and clammy. When he drew in his leg he heard the clinking of a chain. He blinked into the darkness, seeing nothing much beyond narrow walls and iron bars at one side of the room. A cell. He raised his hands he rubbed his head, trying to get over the dizzy feeling still pounding his skull.

 

It was the strangest realization that he was still alive. He had been sure Boromir would finish him off swiftly. But no, it seemed the Captain of Gondor had other plans for him. Carefully Shakurán took stock of his own shape. He had been disarmed and his armor was gone too, except for the leather tunic and breeches he worn beneath. His feet were bare as well. His injuries had scrapped over by themselves, but had gone untreated, which was not surprising; even with the mercy of leaving him alive, he doubted Gondor would have the resources to treat an enemy soldier’s wounds.

 

Beside him he found a heavy stone jar with fresh water. He took it greedily and gulped down half of its contents. It helped a little, made him feel less parched. As he traced his hands over his arms, he found the black marks on them intact, not one mar or blemish to them. No one had taken the reasonable time to destroy them, or cut part of them from his skin.

 

“Boromir, you fool,” Shakurán grumbled into the darkness, when he realized that he was still able to perform the sacrifice. “Why do you have to be such a noble fool, my friend?”

 

The darkness gave him no answer, nor did the heavy walls around him. Drawing in his legs, to rest his arms on them and his head upon his arms in turn, Shakurán pondered what he should do now.

 

TRB

 

The walls of black stone were drawing closer and closer to him, with the Palantír spinning brightly in the middle of a puddle of blood. Gandalf sighed when he finally found what was left of Saruman. How could he have gone so far astray? How could he have fallen so far? He did not know, nor would he ever know for sure. All he knew that Saruman had cost him precious time, time that he could ill afford. Squatting down Gandalf carefully fished the besmirched Palantír from the blood pool. The stone glowed brightly.

 

_He stood on the very bridges of Barad-Dûr and the Tower was burning. Around him troops were cheering, their voice jubilant. And from across the bridge a figure appeared, dark armor, tawny hair, a blood red cloak around his shoulders. And the men hailed the Lord of the Morning._

Gandalf almost dropped the Palantír again. What madness… What had Saruman woken? Why had he even dared to reach so deep for a fate? For revenge? To punish the man who had unwittingly become his downfall? He sighed when he realized that Saruman’s vengeful trap, the trap he had created using the Palantír and this Tower, had never been aimed for Faramir. The younger brother had only been the bait for the true victim, who had walked into the trap without thinking.

 

Wrapping the Palantír into his cloak, Gandalf raised his white staff, forcing his way past the shadowed tower. The bright light shone from the white staff and created a passage for him, leading him outside Orthanc, where Shadowfax was grazing. Inwardly Gandalf had never felt so old… so tired. And for the first time in his life he feared he would come too late. It was a long way to Minas Tirith and more than haste was needed now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. I am amazed how you always put up with my weird sentences. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* 
> 
> I am well aware I chose a very very AU version for the Oathbreakers here – but the original version has already been done to perfection in canon and thus I chose to follow a rather different path here. I will not debate whether or not the ghost army was a deus ex machine, I simply loved to explore the theme from an hopefully new angle.


	35. Paths of Shadow and Light

The rays of a new day were the most welcome sight Aragorn could imagine for this city. Burned and wounded as the White City was, she still stood, proudly greeting another morning. During the last two days in the Houses of Healing he had heard many of the defenders speak of the days of darkness, the days without light, and he honored the courage these men had shown by standing bravely in the way of the Shadow. What he saw in them reminded him again of that conversation he had with Boromir in Rivendell, which now seemed a lifetime ago.

 

Like his thoughts had called out to the man himself, he noticed Boromir striding up the road from the lower rings. He walked with a man that Aragorn at once recognized as of Dol Amroth; he wore the famous armor of the House. Judging by his face, he was a man clearly older than Boromir, so Aragorn assumed it was the reigning Lord of the House. “No, Imrahil,” he heard Boromir’s voice, which had taken a hard edge. “There is little use in trying to dig in here. The Enemy is moving East, and with our allies here we have the field army to retake the riverline at the very least.”

 

What the older man said remained inaudible to Aragorn, but he saw Boromir tense, his entire stature changing like he had been attacked. “If you think such, you can very well take it up with the Steward.” Boromir’s voice had gone icy cold. “And he will tell you the same as I just did. Neither of us has doubts, nor are we trying to avoid recognizing what is obvious. We simply know that we have to fight a war first, to make it mean anything. And you can tell your council of nobles I have a spot for any of their little schemers, right on the front lines.”

 

Aragorn saw the Lord of Dol Amroth walk of. Imrahil had changed with the years and his relations to his nephew clearly were strained. It pained Aragorn that he might have become the point of contention between them. Boromir had noticed him too and walked up to where he stood on the wall. “I am sorry you had to witness that,” he simply said, like the few words could push it all aside.

 

“I rather regret that my return has caused strife within your family, Boromir,” Aragorn replied gently. They were alone on this part of the wall and he wanted Boromir to know they could talk openly, like they had on the quest. “The Imrahil I remember was a good man.”

 

“He still is, in his own way.” Boromir leaned against the battlements, his stance relaxing somewhat, though there was a restlessness which would not fade away. “And it is hardly about you. I doubt we have ever seen eye to eye with my Uncle since… since my mother’s death.” Boromir’s eyes strayed to the singed fields where now the armies were camped. The Elves had preferred to camp right out in the open and some of the Rohirrim army did the same. Before Aragorn could say anything, or even carefully inquire about Lady Findulas’ demise, he had already recovered, and their eyes met. “I was at the Halls of Healing this morning,” he said earnestly. “And I heard what you did for my father. I… there are no words to thank you.”

 

Aragorn lightly touched Boromir’s arm, interrupting the words. “I am glad I was able to help,” he simply replied. It took no seer to know that Boromir loved his father and that such a loss would have further burdened him. “Though… when I saw him again, I was dismayed to realize how much strength these years must have cost your father. He was such a strong man, strong, powerful, not unlike yourself in some aspects, and now… All this strength is gone, burned… It makes me wonder. Was I right to leave back then? Should I have stayed and fought beside you?”

 

He suddenly felt Boromir’s strong hand on his shoulder. “You did not leave for cowardice, Aragorn, or because you didn’t care.” Boromir’s voice was firm, the hard edge vanishing from it for the moment. “I know as much of you by now. And you had your duties to our people up North, in Eriador, and if all Kíli tells me of that place is right, it is worse a mess than we ever were.”

 

Aragorn bowed his head as he felt his cheeks heat. “Don’t mention Kíli in that context. When his people left Eriador, after the dragon was defeated, things became worse. I only learned of it as I grew up… and it was the cause of some contention between us now and then.” He sensed Boromir tense beside him and looked up to see a single white horse that came racing across the Pelennor, carrying a white Rider towards the city.

 

TRB

 

Shakurán had tried to find sleep, allowing his body the rest he might need to plan his next few steps, but while his body yearned for the rest, his mind found it hard to escape the waking world. For the last two days no one had taken special notice of him. The warders brought food and water at irregular intervals, casting disdainful glances, but otherwise leaving him alone. They never spoke to him, except to order him to retreat to the back of the cell before they opened the door. Whatever his fate was to be, he was certainly not being held for interrogation. Shakurán lay on the stone floor of the cell, closed his eyes and pictured his homeland in his mind – the hard, arid lands of his home province, lying in the shadow of mountains so high as the clouds. The fields, carefully fed by long irrigation channels, the aqueduct bringing water to the settlements, for the breaking of the world at the end of the first age had left the land dry and shattered. If he focused enough, he could almost feel the hot, dry wind brush against his skin and smell the soft fragrance of the flowering rosewood trees. It had been a long time since he had needed his childhood trick to make himself sleep, a trick he had found in the lonely cavern halls of Ironbreaker fortress where he had been trained as a youth. But finally sleep came, carrying his mind away from the dungeon or his worries.

 

Pale mists swirled through his dreams and the pale light of violet flames rose in the darkness. Shakurán’s mind startled in his sleep, recognizing the call of a veiled sorcerer. They were usually used for battlefield communications, but they also could call upon someone in sleep. As he heard no words, he turned to the flames. Four of them seemed to burn in the darkness, a full circle if he had ever seen one. Inwardly Shakurán sighed, that would be orders, most likely from Minas Morgul. Neither captivity nor chains were enough to sever a man from the service of the dread city.

 

As he focused on the flames, he could see he stepped between them. Of course he knew that it was only his mind reaching for the flames, but he had been taught that allowing oneself to think in such physical actions eased the passage of dream-walks a lot. When he stepped between the flames, a vague image of the sorcerers and their surroundings shaped around him, like the echoes of a dream. Surprised he noticed the trees, the vague picture of a makeshift camp… This certainly was not the Tower of Silent Watchers in Minas Morgul.

 

“We have found him, my Lord,” one of the Sorcerers spoke to someone out of the line of Shakurán’s sight.

 

“Good,” another voice answered and Shakurán forced himself to remain absolutely still. He had heard that voice only twice, but he knew to whom it belonged. So Jadhur’s favorite son had made it out of the battle. It was a surprise; Shakurán had not pegged Prince Jariel for much of a warrior, but probably the compliment should go to the surviving Eternals.

 

The flames opposite of him hissed and burned brighter as Prince Jariel too entered the ring of flame. Shakurán knew that images in this dream were unreliable, but Jariel’s appearance certainly bespoke exhaustion. “The Seers claim that you are inside Minas Tirith, but have yet to perform your… task,” Prince Jariel spoke, forgoing all greetings. “A captive, I take it?”

 

“Captured, your Highness,” Shakurán confirmed. “As far as I can tell the only one. At least in these dungeons. I do not know how deep under the city I am, and if the ritual would reach their armies…” It was a weak explanation, but one that made sense.

 

To his surprise Prince Jariel waved it off. “I will assume that you have more sense than most of those who serve in Minas Morgul and that you have yet a part of yourself that counts himself a son of the Empire before being a servant of Barad-Dûr.”

 

Shakurán knew that there had always been a rift between those who served the Empire and those who served Barad-Dûr itself, but that it should come up now was strange. “My Lord?” he asked, wondering why he had been summoned.

 

A grim, yet strangely sad smile flickered over Prince Jariel’s face. “The Oracles foresee doom looming above Barad-Dûr. The omens for Sauron are dark and the Lord of the Morning has risen from the Seas to bring destruction to the world. If that does not spell destruction to Mordor, I do not know what does, and the Empire has to think on surviving beyond the storm.”

 

“You are rethinking the alliance with Barad-Dûr, my Lord?” Shakurán asked, wording things carefully. Of course he knew the names of a dozen legion leaders who were Easterlings first, and Shadow-sworn second, but most Easterlings were closely tied to Mordor through the person of Khamûl, Lord of the Nazgûl and, at a time long gone, Emperor of the Easterling Empire.

 

“Our people’s allegiance is, and always was, to the Great Lord himself. Never forget that.” Prince Jariel looked sharply at him. “And Sauron is not the Great Lord, a fact he likes to forget. Our task is to survive, to remain strong and to await the day the Gate of Night breaks and our Lord returns. For then the Great Battle will come…”

 

“… and we will stuff Turambar his arrogance back into his throat.” Shakurán knew that part, every child in the Empire did. Being an Easterling meant to stand ready for the last battle, for the Day of the Return. Even Sauron was secondary to that, though it had rarely been said so explicitly in past years.

 

“I see you remember who you are. Good.” Jariel raised his hand, waving him to come closer. “You are captive in Minas Tirith and your little… dalliance with their great Captain can now be useful, for he also is the Lord of the Morning. You will find a way to ingratiate yourself with him, swear to him if he allows it, do whatever it takes that will gain you his trust, maybe his confidence if you can make it.”

 

A cold shiver ran through Shakurán when he understood what that order meant. “You want me to gain his trust and then destroy him?” Another Ulfang, a ploy that might work again if played rightly. The very thought made him sick, and he had to struggle very hard to not break the dream.

 

“Not necessarily. The Empire will need time to recover and regroup after Sauron falls and that can be gained if you find a way to influence the Lord of the Morning, redirect his wrath elsewhere – Harad maybe, or Khand, they could do with an invasion. Turn him against this Númenoran King, if you can. I leave that to your skill, as long as you keep him away from our borders. Recruit whatever of our soldiers in Mordor you can to aid you in this. See yourself as the first of a new Twelve Thousand Lost Ones, if that helps you. But keep in mind that if he ever turns against our people, our lands, I will expect your blade in his back before he can make good on such plans.”

 

The cold did not wane from Shakurán. Easterlings were nothing but pragmatic; they had been survivors since they had fled the destruction of the ancient western lands, and now again they would use what their great Lord had taught them about appropriate treachery and leave Sauron to burn. Where did this leave him?

 

Luckily, Jariel had not noticed his hesitation as he spoke on. “What I order you to, is a lonely path, Shakurán, and much like the Twelve Thousand Lost Ones, you might have to even leave the name of an Easterling behind, but through your sacrifice the Empire will endure.”

 

“And the Empire will endure,” Shakurán’s response was one not of his heart, but simply of habit. The tenets of the Empire: _The Empire will endure. The Emperor is Eternal. The Emperor must be obeyed in all things,_ were taught to children from the time they learned to speak.

 

“Good,” Jariel smiled, satisfied with what he saw. “There is something to lighten your path: your youngest son is a Drakhár rider named Scyrane, is he not? Reports say he was with those the elves shot out of the sky and captured alive. If you play your hand right, you might not have to lose him entirely.”

 

Shakurán knew the carrot when he saw one; the stick and the carrot was one of the oldest tactics. He silently watched as Prince Jariel stepped back and waved the sorcerers to break the circle. Moments late he woke back in his dark cell. As he looked around him he saw no change with before;  he was alone in the silence. Sitting up, Shakurán tried to think of what had been said. His orders were clear, or as clear as any traitor’s orders could be. The irony was that it was well possible; Boromir had tried to recruit him before. This time Shakurán would only have to accept it, because he had been ordered to. The very thought made his stomach churn. He had enjoyed that little dance with Boromir, because he respected the man and because he had known that in honesty he’d never be able to accept such an offer. And while there had been a part of him that had silently wished he could, he had always known it was impossible. Besmirching their friendship with another Imperial Ploy, it left Shakurán feeling very tired in body and soul.

 

“No, Jariel,” he said out loud into the silence. “The Emperor might be obeyed, but not any Prince gains the same loyalty.” He pushed himself to his feet and approached the wall of the cell. It was uneven rock, neither flattened nor polished. Hard edges protruded from the slightly dank walls. It was exactly what he needed. Carefully he checked the wall to find a few sharp edges in the rock, then he raced his naked arm and ran it along the wall so hard that the stone cut deeply into his skin and flesh, cutting through the patterns on his arm, drawing a dark stream along with the blood. It hurt, but Shakurán embraced the pain, drawing it into himself as he went on, cutting up the patterns on his arms, until both his lower arms were bleeding heavily. Exhausted he sat down on the floor of the cell. It would take a while for the bleeding to kill him, but luckily the wardens never paid him much heed.

 

TRB

 

“Saruman’s treachery reached deeper than I ever dared to imagine.” Gandalf’s voice sounded tired to Aragorn’s ears, a sadness swinging with it. “The powers he invoked, they cannot be controlled and unfortunately he chose his victim well.”

 

They were sitting in one of the empty guard rooms of the citadel. Boromir had pointed them there and made sure Thoroniâr of the Tower Guard knew to leave them alone. “Whatever he did, it has yet to reach us,” Aragorn replied, trying to calm Gandalf. “This city came better through the storm than I dared to hope. Boromir was right about his people.”

 

“Boromir,” Gandalf sighed deeply, his hand closing around his staff. “Saruman hated him for foiling his plans. He placed the entire destruction of his plans on his shoulders, and he was not entirely wrong with that. Boromir set things in motion that will send ripples through the fabric of the world. Who would have known he carried such darkness in him? What Saruman woke in him… I wish I had known before.”

 

Aragorn frowned; it was like Gandalf to speak in riddles. “I will admit that Boromir’s methods of defense were harsh, but he was faced with an unforgiving foe. I do not see darkness in him and while his men might call him the Lord of the Morning, I believe it is more of a ploy to send fear back to the Easterlings.”

 

“I wish it was so, Aragorn, I truly do.” Gandalf’s eyes went to the narrow window of the room. “But even in the few moments I met him before he left us here I could feel it: a darkness unleashed inside him, a churning flame that will not be quenched. When I found out about Saruman’s plans I feared I would find a madman in charge of the defense. And while I admire what he did, there is a taste of insanity to it all the same and he is pushing his troops harder than ever before.”

 

Aragorn’s shoulders tensed and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “It seems this is the first time in the world where you and Denethor agree on something, and I believe you both all the more wrong for it. Boromir is neither insane nor on the verge of falling into darkness. And I trust him. He is the strongest man I ever knew. I cannot see him accept a darkness inside him, nor nurturing it.”

 

“I did not know he carried it too, but he did and now that Saruman woke it. He was always good in twisting those he wished to use.” Gandalf rose from his seat. “It speaks for your good heart that you do not wish to let Boromir fall, but he is a danger now. Remember that before you decide further.”

 

Aragorn watched him leave, knowing that he had riled the old wizard’s temper. He valued Mithrandir’s advice more than he could say, but he could not believe what he had claimed. _If strangers carry accusations to your ears, speak to the man who is accused._ He recalled the lessons of Elrond a lifetime ago, and again he found them wise. He would not judge any man, much less a friend, without hearing him.

 

TRB

 

Sleep eluded Boromir. He found it hard to even sit or rest most of the time and he did not miss sleeping either, even though he sometimes felt tired from it. Right now the restlessness, the will to keep moving, the itch to not stay in one place, had abated, like it always did in Kíli’s presence. It often felt like Kíli’s presence calmed the anger, the restless energy inside him and allowed him to relax. Not that his own state did not have repercussions for Kíli as well, because the days of ceaseless fighting and then whipping the fortress back into a shape that could be called defensible, had taken a lot out of him. Boromir knew that; he could see the exhaustion spread in his friend and had suggested Kíli find some sleep as long as the calm lasted.

 

Now, sitting in one of the many crevices of the Undercity, Boromir still kept watch after Kíli had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Like many warriors, Kíli slept sitting, one side against the stone wall, knees drawn in, weapon read to grab in case of attack. It was a tense pose that only slightly relaxed as sleep claimed him. Deeply asleep Kíli’s face too relaxed, melting away the sterner lines of the warrior prince and bringing out a face that would always remind Boromir of young Kíli, of the friend he had gone against the dragon with. By now he had grown comfortable with the memories. They were part of him, of his life and he cherished them, though there were still gaps and blanks in what had been before.

 

The intervening years had shaped Kíli into a warrior and a strong leader, and strangely Boromir did find that older version of Kíli as familiar as the young one had been. Maybe their souls had simply known each other for such a long time that they’d recognize each other again, no matter what shape fate would grant them. Even in that horrible vision inside the Grey Boromir had recognized Kíli at once, though it had only been moments away from Kíli’s death. He still hated that vision Saruman had awoken there, it still made his soul freeze. He was glad he knew it had not come to pass, because they had not died on that battlefield, though Saruman had strongly suggested that they had been _meant_ to die, that Thorin’s fate would have been to fall and that his sons were meant to follow him to an early, unmarked grave.

 

Maybe that had been his reason to begin the journey in the first place? Boromir wondered, because he did not know why he had found a way to walk this path, to send his soul to a place far beyond his own life, but he must have had a reason. If it had been preventing this horror vision from coming to pass, it had been a good choice and one he’d make again in a heartbeat.

 

Steps softly echoed on the stairs leading down to them, and Boromir’s hand fell to Shadowbreaker’s hilt as he got up and went towards whoever was coming down here. Surprised he recognized Aragorn, who had stopped when he saw Boromir go for the weapon, but relaxed moments after when he saw Kíli, who had not woken yet. Boromir gestured him to be silent and up the stairs. They walked up the narrow stairwell again, coming to stand on one of the many galleries of the Undercity. “You needed me?” Boromir asked softly, knowing they were far enough for Kíli to not hear them.

 

“I needed to speak to you,” Aragorn replied, leaning against one of the mighty pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling of the Undercity. “And when I did not find you, I remembered that during our journey you often did not sleep when Kíli could not and vice versa.” He had seen their friendship on the journey, and maybe he was one the few people who still knew that their path extended beyond this life.

 

Boromir inclined his head, standing opposite of Aragorn, with his back to the wall, keeping a keen eye out for the stairs leading down. “Troubles with the Council?” he asked, wondering what had come up. “Faramir usually handles them, but I can give the council a talking to **,** if they are their usual annoying selves.”

 

Aragorn smiled. This was how he knew Boromir, always focused on the problem at hand, always ready to take up his duties again, never resting more than absolute necessary. He was the same man who had told him off for not leaving him behind in Ost-in-Edhil and it made speaking of what he had to speak all the harder. “When I spoke to your father, and later to Gandalf, both expressed a worry about you,” he eventually said. “They spoke of a darkness inside you, that might have been woken through Saruman’s treachery…” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “And while I cannot see any darkness in you, I wanted to hear you about it.” It sounded crude, like a badly veiled accusation.

 

But Boromir remained calm, only his shoulders sagging a little. “They are not wrong, Aragorn. There is a shadow inside me. Maybe it was there since Minas Morgul.” With the last two words his voice sank to barely a whisper.

 

“I know of the story how you escaped from Minas Morgul,” Aragorn said. It was a story known far and wide, the only man to ever escape the dungeons of the dread city. It was the stuff of legend, and would live on for generations to come.

 

“No one escapes from Minas Morgul.” Boromir’s voice grew harsh, pressed. “No one ever escapes from the dread city. It is a historical truth that holds to this day.”

 

“But you did,” Aragorn pointed out. In the silence of the Undercity, their voices came back to them as soft echoes, making this entire conversation eerie enough.

 

“I did not escape,” Boromir bowed his head, his entire posture losing its usual strength. “But I did not see it back then. I was young and arrogant and I believed that I had made it, thanks to Irdáin and his courage…” He walked past Aragorn, leaning against the railing of the gallery, looking down to the lower level. “I only understood a long time later that they had let me go. They wanted me to escape and they used a good, valiant man to make it work. They made sure he could reach me, but not escape with me and thus I foolishly believed I had escaped from the dungeons from whence there is no return.”

 

“But why let you escape with something that… What did they do to you?” Aragorn knew it was a dangerous question to ask, and yet he had to.

 

“They marred my soul.” Boromir’s voice had gone low, a hush, no more. “I cannot describe it, Aragorn. When _he_ came and touched my soul… It was worse than all their torture. It was when Kíli found me, the bond… it saved me there, or I might have died, lost my mind to the torment. Kíli shielded me, shared the pain. If I did not know him as I do, I’d wonder how he could stand it, how he could do it. He protected me as much as he could… and he still does.”

 

Shocked Aragorn tried to digest the words. How much strength, a strength beyond any mortal, did Boromir possess to control the darkness inside him? To not allow the Enemy to get to him? He had walked in the presence of the Ring and not broken… Aragorn had no words to describe his admiration for such strength. “We will find a way to heal you, my friend,” he said impulsively. “Whatever they did, there has to be a way…”

 

“No.” Boromir shook his head, his eyes finding Aragorn’s gaze. “Whatever Saruman did, he handed us a weapon, and this war is far from over. I will use what they gave me, use it to fight them as long and as hard as I can. And when my time comes, all I ask of you is that you give Kíli time to sever the bond. I do not want him to die with me.”

 

Before Aragorn could say anything or protest, heavy steps approached them and a deep voice cut grumbling through the silence. “If I capture a high-ranking Easterling, Warden, I keep him in a cell where a Veiled Sorcerercannot reach him, or I should not be surprised about the outcome. Mahal’s Eternal Flame! You have fought them for so long, have you learned nothing about them?!” Dwalin stomped up the gallery and towards them.

 

“Easterling?” Aragorn asked, his eyes going to the bald dwarf.

 

“Shakurán,” Boromir said. “I captured him during the battle. I’ve had no time to talk to him yet, and given how the fighting went, he’d have been as exhausted as we are.”

 

“He tried to take his own life.” Dwalin made a fist and opened it again, like he was trying to keep his temper. “Apart from the little fact that capturing him alive is the Greatest Dishonor a Son of the Empire can suffer, the cell had the smell of pine-ash, a Veiled Sorcerer’s work if I ever saw any.”

 

“I spared his life at least one time before,” Boromir replied. “And he has saved my life too. Neither of us took insult. What did he do? Is he… did he survive?”

 

Aragorn noticed an echo of worry in Boromir, strange though that might be. There was a part of Aragorn that would still flinch when Easterlings were mentioned; he’d never forget the dark days in the deeps of Moria. But he trusted Boromir, and maybe he had a different perspective on them from his long years of fighting them. “Go and take care of that,” he said, wanting Boromir to know he trusted him, darkness or no.

 

TRB

 

Together with Dwalin Boromir strode down to the deep dungeons. “He was not that far gone yet; the injuries were not deep enough for that,” Dwalin said. “And your Tower Guard is efficient, even if the prison wardens are not. They sent one of theirs for a healer. I know the kind; he is tough and will come around faster than we will think.”

 

Like to confirm Dwalin’s words, Boromir heard Shakurán’s voice from the cell. “If you try to fuss one more time, healer, I will use that chain and strangle you with it, which should give your brave Tower Guard a good excuse to kill me.” His voice was firm already, though Boromir could hear it lacked the strength he had come to associate with Shakurán.

 

He stepped before the iron bars that were the cell door, seeing Shakurán sit on the floor, both arms freshly bandaged. Remains of the black patterns that had adorned his arms were still visible on the upper arms, but they too were fading slowly, like the disrupted pattern was bleeding out still. “Much as you are set on dying, could you leave my troops out of it?” he asked dryly, gesturing the healer and the guards to leave. They looked unhappy to leave him alone with a barely restrained Easterling. Boromir gave them a glare and they left, though he knew they would linger barely out of earshot.

 

Shakurán pushed himself to his feet. “As you did not seem inclined to do the work… It seems one cannot die in peace in the dungeons of Minas Tirith.”

 

Boromir pushed the door open and entered the cell. He had never been afraid of Shakurán when the man had been free and armed and talking in a cell was nothing he’d do through the bars. “You never were set on dying before, Shakurán. You might have done crazy things, but you never openly courted death like you are doing now. What happened to you?”

 

A humorless, dry laughter was his first answer, defiant dark eyes meeting his gaze. “You are a fool, Son of the Sea Kings, one noble, honorable fool. I had hoped you’d kill me before I could release the sacrifice I carried, before the Soul Sacrifice could be complete.”

 

“The Soul Sacrifice?” Suddenly things began to make sense: the strange retreat of the Eastern troops in the battle, Shakurán’s charge… The entire strategy fell into place, allowing Boromir a glimpse of a horrid, yet masterful strategy. Cruel though it might be, it was a brilliant plan.

 

“I see you have heard of it,” Shakurán observed. “And not from reading moldy old tomes, I’d assume.”

 

“Your brother chased us right into Ost-in-Edhil. The city still carries the marks of the powers worked on her,” Boromir replied, finding his voice again. “And whatever your reasons were, whatever stayed your hand…”

 

“Oh, don’t go all soft on me,” Shakurán grumbled, turning away and walking a few steps, as far as the chain at his ankle allowed. “I had my own reasons for doing what I did. If you tell me I can now await my execution in peace, I’ll stop giving your wardens trouble.”

 

“Is your death necessary to protect your family in the Empire?” Boromir recalled their conversation in the hidden harbor on Númenor. If not for his family, maybe Shakurán might have chosen a different path.

 

“No.” Shakurán shook his head. “There is not much left. One of my sons is dead – he killed your dwarven ally’s royal father in battle – my other son is in the hand of your elven allies and my wife… For once in our lives she might be safe from repercussions of what I do.”

 

Boromir noticed how the words did not include his brother anymore. What had transpired to break them apart? What had happened to Shakurán? He knew that tough, antagonistic shell the Easterling would present to the world when he was shaken inside. “Then why die at all?” he asked, stepping up to Shakurán. “I once asked you something, back on that island, and if I asked again, would the answer be different?”

 

He saw Shakurán’s shoulders tense, but then the Easterling threw back his head, pushing the long mane of dark hair back over his shoulders. “Could you stop being that honorable, noble, courageous fool just for once, Boromir?” he asked sharply. “For it would make it all too easy for the Empire to use you.”

 

“What did they order you to do?” Boromir recalled Dwalin’s claim about the Veiled Sorcerer and he was willing to trust Dwalin Bloodbane’s expertise on Easterling methods. “What is it they want you to do now? Assassinate me? Spy out our plans? Deliver our King to Minas Morgul?”

 

Shakurán’s shoulders sagged and he reached for the wall to steady himself. “I wish,” he said. “I wish it was something as simple as tricking your little Númenoran King into capture. No, the Empire has decided that the Lord of the Morning spells doom for Mordor and thus the Empire needs to think of survival.” He forced himself to stand straight, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “They want me to take your offer, to be what the Twelve Thousand once were, to ensure you leave the Empire alone once you are done with Mordor and to kill you, should you turn against the Empire.” He shook his head. “I may be a dark legionnaire, I may have served the Nazgûl Lords for most of my life, but I am not some little twisted traitor to play their games.”

 

There were two things in his words that strongly reached Boromir. One was the tiredness; Shakurán did not want to go on like this and for some reason their friendship compelled him to be honest about this. And the other was that the Easterling knew more of the Lord of the Morning and perhaps even knew what kind of power resided inside him. If anyone knew how to harness and maybe use such darkness, it would him. But all that paled before the trap Shakurán was in, played against the different sides by his own people. “And choosing your own path?” Boromir asked, not breaking their eye contact. “They do expect you to betray them, they are cutting you loose. Why not use that chance and free yourself?”

 

For a moment the hard expression on Shakurán’s face softened as he shook his head. “You would say that, Son of the Sea Kings, but if I were to take you up on that noble, courageous and entirely foolish offer to join you, would you believe me that I mean it? Could you believe me after all I just told you?”

 

Boromir reached for Shakurán’s shoulders and clasped them firmly. “I would. I do believe you, Shakurán.” He knew him too well not to. He had seen him rescue a slave from certain death, simply because he liked him, he had saved Boromir from drowning when he could have just as easily saved himself. “Even when you served the Shadow, you did what you believed to be right.”

 

Shakurán returned the gesture, his hands lightly resting on Boromir’s shoulders. “You are a fool, Son of the Sea Kings, but I am no less a fool for believing in you.”

 

TRB

 

Anarion crouched behind a few rocks and watched the Orcs argue loudly with the Haradrim troops. There were many of them flooding back towards the Mountain fortresses, making his own progress towards safety a slow thing. There had never been a time when all passes of the Mountains of Shadow were so crowded and infighting, arguing and general nastiness amongst the Enemy forces so abundant. Yet there also where traces of order being restored. Khamûl had taken command of Minas Morgul and named a new marshal of the legions. Anarion had not been surprised to hear a well-known name there. So it was only a matter of time until order was restored and his path would be fraught with even bigger problems.

 

A shriek alerted him to a movement in the drifting clouds as a Drakhár dived from the skies and landed on the pass road not far from the Haradrim. The two Easterling riders dismounted both, drawing swords as they went towards the Orcs and Haradrim who had ceased their arguing, but still were ready to be at each other’s throats at a moment’s notice. Anarion sighed. The Easterlings were swift in whipping the legions back into shape and he had a long way to go yet. His eyes fell on the Drakhár, sitting peacefully alone on the road. If he could snatch the beast while the Easterlings were not looking, he’d be home much sooner than he had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. I am amazed how you always put up with my weird sentences. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs*


	36. The Strengthening Storm

The city slept in silence, dreaming towards a new morning, dawning far away in the East, as Boromir walked with Shakurán through the empty streets towards the sixth ring. The shock and stares of the guards when he had told them to unchain Shakurán had been a sight to behold, though they had obeyed. At least Thoroniâr had taken the situation in hand swiftly. He might not understand either, but he did not question Boromir either, and the same went for Veryan.

 

“Will your King believe you or even accept this?” Shakurán asked as they passed through the Street of Silence and saw the Rath Dínen to their left. His voice was calmer now, but all the more determined.

 

“He is a wiser man than you give him credit for,” Boromir replied. He knew that a typical Easterling strength was what Shakurán respected most, but he’d learn to respect Aragorn’s wisdom, once he had been with them for a while. “And stronger than you believe.”

 

“He must be if you respect him.” Shakurán accepted Boromir’s judgment and looked around. “Rath Dínen?” He arched an eyebrow. “Why are we going to the crypts?” There was no distrust in his voice and neither was there fear. Shakurán did not fear death and he did not expect treachery from Boromir.

 

“There is more to the Houses of Silence than just the burial ground,” Boromir told him. It was strange to walk an empty city together; it woke eerie reminiscences of the ruins of Númenor. “Though I did not know for the longest time as well.”

 

They left the street that would lead to the crypts of the Kings and followed the narrow path that seemingly ended in a dead end close to the crypts of a long extinguished family. A few oleander bushes grew at the end of the street and their long branches hung far into the path. Boromir carefully pushed them aside, revealing that the path led on. They found another entrance past the bushes, simple white stairs leading underground.

 

In the past Boromir had felt some echo when he was here, but now he felt the restlessness surge inside him and he had to force himself to continue down the stairs. Shakurán beside him exhaled sharply, tensing, and his step became harder, but when he looked to the side, there was almost a smile on his face. “So you did not forget…?”

 

“How could I after you forced me to listen to all your translation back there?” Boromir asked. It was another reason why he had kept believing that Shakurán could be free of the Shadow. He had borne the overwhelming presence of the temple on Númenor to translate the ancient writings for Boromir, for reasons he had been careful to explain, but behind it all Boromir knew it had been an attempt to help him, and he had learned there that the Easterling was more of a spiritual man than he was. “When I returned, I kept wondering, and began to dig through the ancient chronicles of the city.”

 

They reached the bottom of the stairs and stood in a wide hallway made of white stone, leading towards a double-arc which was a door. Even without any lights there was a soft radiance coming from that doorway. Shakurán stopped, to brace himself against the pain he felt treading these grounds. “With your lousy Adûnaic, you won’t have had much fun doing that. I doubt you even speak the Elven the Faithful might have written.”

 

Boromir stifled a smile; there was the Shakurán he knew, the man who could jab him about his lack of scholarly knowledge and who still would care that he learned the things that he felt important. “I asked my brother for translations and he doubted my sanity for a while.” Boromir pointed ahead. “But the clues I found led me here and if you truly want to break free of your old oaths, this is the place to do it.” He slowly handed Shakurán the blade that he had Veryan retrieve from the weapons that had been taken from the Easterling after capture.

 

Shakurán’s eyebrows shot up. “You have learned that much and still think that spilling blood – dark blood no less – on such grounds would be right or appropriate? It would desecrate the sanctuary and I won’t have it.” He pointed back to the exit. “I will do it outside and, if it is your wish, I will swear whatever oath you demand of me down in the sanctuary after.”

 

“Come with me.” Boromir had not expected a different answer. Shakurán had always shown a strange respect for the Eru sanctuary on Númenor, to the point of leaving his dark blessed sword outside when he entered it. Silently they walked through the archways, and Boromir had to exercise all control he had to not retreat. He could feel a cold echo from the hall. With who he was becoming, he was not truly welcome here anymore, although it was not the kind of pain Shakurán must endure for treading sacred ground.

 

The sanctuary was made of white stone and in many way was reminiscent of the hidden temple on Númenor. The only difference was that instead of the black pillar upholding the hall, there was a single dark stone to the left side of the hall. It was carved into the shape of a sea-shell and a blade rested on its rim. Boromir saw Shakurán’s eyes widening when he approached the stone bowl. “The Twelve Thousand… Is this where they foreswore?” he asked softly.

 

It would of course hold such reference for him, Boromir knew. “They too,” he replied. “But contrary what history wants to remember, a number of dark Númenoran’s escaped with Elendil. Some had only joined the dark faith to protect their families, some had been actively trying to shield the Faithful from harm and some were simply friends who had chosen their friendship over their King’s madness. And when this city was founded, here they foreswore their dark oaths to become part of the Light again, as did those brave men that you call the Lost Twelve Thousand.” History had recorded little of them, but the bits Boromir had been able to glean from chronicles and the writings of several Captains of Gondor, had indicated that they had been good, loyal fighters for their new home.

 

He pointed to the blade in Shakurán’s hands. “The blade is almost identical with the one kept here.” The fact that Shakurán had kept the blade told Boromir a lot. The Easterling might hide it behind plans or intelligent excuses, but deep down… deep down Shakurán had already felt a rift inside him, seeking for a way out.

 

Shakurán stepped right in front of the shell, casting a glance at the other blade. It had to be the second of Bor’s blades and again he wondered what had driven the path of Bor and his sons. Their choice to remain loyal to their elven King… He could well understand them now, even as he dreaded the final step on this path. He looked on the black stone bowl that was to catch his blood and prevent the sanctuary from becoming tainted and he wondered if he could do it. Breaking loyalty to the Empire was one thing, but breaking faith to the Great Lord, to the wings of night… Could he do it?

 

Unbidden and uncalled for an image crept into his mind: the picture of a frail woman, bronze skinned and with the same black hair he too had. She was thin and clutched her cloak tightly around her narrow shoulders. _I will not return, little one,_ a voice whispered from the past, _but I pray to HIM to protect you. Do not forget, Shakurán, underneath all you have to become to survive in this cruel land, underneath all your father will teach you, remember, remember for me. Go to the grove beyond the hills and remember there IS a light in this world, and it has not forgotten us, though we live deeply under the shadow._

 

The memory choked Shakurán. He felt his throat tighten and had to blink hard to not allow tears to his eyes. It had been the last time he had seen his mother; she had not returned that night and later his father had forbidden him to ask about her. The adult in him knew she had to have been a child survivor of the great purge that had followed the Succession, cleansing the land of those who had broken away from the true faith. The son in him wished to cry for her loss, even though he had been trained not to cry before he had been twelve.

 

He closed his eyes, focusing inwards to be calm. He had chosen this, he had almost agreed to follow Boromir two years ago on Númenor, even as the dark blessing had still been burning inside him, and now… now he had chosen this path. He’d follow his friend, no matter where this road would lead, even if the price to pay was a harsh one. Slowly he slid the blade through his palms, seeing the blood mar the runes on it, until the entire blade shone with the blood spread on it.

 

 _“Under the Night that guards me and before the earth that carries me, I Foreswear all Oaths that bind me._ ”

 

If a power had reached inside him to yank out his bones, it could not have hurt more. The pain soared from his bones, from his flesh and his very soul as the oaths engraved on them broke, as the dark blessings having been carved into his body during a lifetime of service were dissolving. Shakurán managed to bite back a scream of pain, but he could not stop himself from collapsing to his knees as the pain wrecked through his body. Fire rose inside his blood, burning him alive… He doubted he could take much more when the cold came. Like cool water it soothed the worst burning, supported his battered body until he could breathe freely again.

 

He looked down on his arms and saw the scars gone and the marks too… It was strange to see them like this, to see through his eyes without the sight the dark eyes had given him. Shaking and shivering Shakurán pushed himself up, finding to his surprise that he could stand. He breathed out slowly, his own sense of self having shifted rapidly. He raised his hand and gave the blade back to Boromir.

 

The taller man shook his head. “There is no need for that.”

 

Inwardly Shakurán wondered how stubborn the man could be. “For one time, do not be foolish, Boromir. I want you to take it back. That way you can be sure I will keep to whatever Oath you will ask of me.”

 

“If I had any doubts about you keeping your oath, I would never have brought you here, Shakurán.” Boromir pushed the blade back into his hand.

 

Before they could debate on, they heard voices from above grounds. They resounded softly in the hall below. “I know it is strange, my Lord, but he sometimes comes here. He found this place two years ago and made sure it was not harmed or destroyed.”

 

Boromir frowned, recognizing Faramir’s voice. He gestured Shakurán to follow him as they left the white hall and walked back through the hallway towards the stairs. He could hear Aragorn’s reply more clearly. “Boromir discovered this sanctuary, sought it actually? I am surprised, Faramir…”

 

“And I know someone who could have sent a runner instead of dragging others through the wilderness behind Rath Dínen,” Boromir spoke up, meeting them halfway up the stairs. He gave Faramir a sharp glance. His brother might have the uncanny knack to know where Boromir was most of the time, but dragging Aragorn here had not been necessary.

 

“You forget I am a Ranger. The wilderness is where I walk.” There was a hint of humor in Aragorn’s voice. “And this is too strange to have the guard send a runner for you. They will eventually, as soon as it gets lighter and they see it too.”

 

“You said strange, so it cannot be a new army marching in.” Boromir breathed a sigh of relief as they were outside of the temple hall. He had never felt such pressure on himself like in that place. Both Aragorn and Faramir had noticed Shakurán, who kept to the background, but they probably had heard from the guard with whom Boromir had left the dungeons hours ago. A shriek in the air made Boromir look up. “Drakhár!” His hand fell to his sword, but Aragorn gestured him to not draw the blade.

 

“It is circling the city for at least an hour now. Sometimes it calls, so it can hardly be a scout or spy. It was hard to spot as long as it was dark.” But Faramir and he had spotted it nevertheless. “Could it be a messenger of sorts?” Aragorn asked Boromir, knowing that the Captain had more experience in dealing with such things.

 

Boromir shook his head. “A messenger would have landed outside the archers’ reach and then approached the gate. Shakurán,” he turned to the Easterling, whose eyes were on the grey skies already. “Any insights?”

 

“A green Drakhár, a big one, definitely not a scout.” Shakurán squinted, studying the skies, where he could see the big lizard sail amongst the clouds. “There… He is circling, he wants to land, but the handler must be incapacitated and cannot guide him down.”

 

“These lizards cannot land on their own?” Aragorn asked, his eyes going between the flying beast and the Easterling studying its path in the skies.

 

“Contrary to what you believe, a Drakhár’s own eyesight is very hazy. They are not hunters by nature. They are _trained_ to be hunters and they need the keen eyes of their handler to perform their tasks. I’d venture to guess the handler is wounded or dead and the Drakhár returned to the last campsite, waiting to be guided down.”

 

“Can you guide him down?” Boromir had not looked out for the Drakhár, but was already thinking through possibilities of what this might mean.

 

Shakurán looked around. “Aye, but not here; these grounds are too narrow and redirecting the Drakhár back into the air would take too much of a toll on the tired beast.” He walked away from the place where they stood through the Street of Silence and towards the open grounds before the sixth gate.

 

Boromir saw the silent glance Shakurán cast to him. It was odd to see, but it also showed that Shakurán was willing to follow his lead, to find his place here. “Do it,” he replied to the unspoken question. He had no idea how Shakurán was going to guide the Drakhár down, but only a moment after his words a shrill whistle made his ears ring. It was closely reminiscent of a Drakhár’s shriek, and the flying lizard high above answered with its own call.

 

Aragorn watched the exchange of signals between the Easterling and the Drakhár. The Ranger in him at once recognized that the Drakhár handlers had learned their beasts’ tongue to work with them. It made him no more at ease with the Easterling’s presence than before. “You truly believe he means it, do you?” he asked Boromir softly as the Drakhár began slowly to descent on the city, the approach painfully slow.

 

Boromir nodded slowly. “I do. Shakurán always was his own man; he never was a slave. The loyalty he gives, is what he wants to give, for what he believes in. That will never change.” Another sharp whistle guided the Drakhár closer. It flapped its wings, like it was unsure how to come closer.

 

“I admire how you can stand his presence.” Aragorn’s eyes went back to the Easterling, who had advanced towards the other end of the place, to call for the Drakhár again. “I see him and I see those Easterlings in Moria. You fought them for all your life and yet you can accept him.” He raised his hand, asking Boromir not to say anything. “I am not ready to accept the oath of any of them, not yet, maybe not in a good while. Let his oath be to you. He already believes in you and he will follow you.” And he trusted Boromir, more than almost any other man.

 

A harsh wind blew over the place as the Drakhár finally hit ground. Huge scaly claws touched the flagstones of the yard as the green-scaled lizard drew in its mighty wings. Shakurán was already close and petted the powerful, if ugly head, speaking soothingly in his native tongue to the animal. When he looked up, he barked a laugh. “Not a wounded rider, but a thief. Stealing Drakhár always ends badly.”

 

Boromir’s eyes widened when he saw Anarion dismount the Drakhár, sword ready and pointed towards Shakurán. “You can sheath your sword, Anarion. The city has not yet fallen,” he said, dissolving the situation ere it could get out of hand. “If you chose such an unusual means of return, something must have happened. The next army is already on its way?”

 

“Not yet, Captain.” Anarion cast a distrustful glance towards Shakurán as he sheathed his blade. “But I was bidden by an elf named Aelin to carry a message for you.”

 

Aelin… Boromir could hardly believe it. When he had given his cryptic orders to Anarion, he had not dared to hope the Ranger would truly find any traces of their friends. He gestured Anarion to be silent for the moment. “Shakurán, can you get Anarion’s new friend away from here?”

 

“He is parched, Captain. He will need water and some greens to graze on,” Shakurán replied. “With your permission I will bring him out of the city, where he can rest.”

 

There was a care the Drakhár riders showed their beasts that reminded Boromir of the Rohirrim and their horses. “Do that. And Shakurán, if a certain red Drakhár is still around and searching for you, call him in and keep both. We might have need of them soon.” He saw the curt nod and then the Easterling mounted the huge beast with practiced east and guided it back into the air.

 

TRB

 

Boromir had chosen the Captain’s guard room for the meeting, simply because it held a detailed map of Mordor, one that had only one twin, which was in the possession of the Captain of the Rangers. Apart himself and his brother Aragorn was there, along with Gandalf, Éomer, as Theodred was still resting in the Houses of Healing. Kíli had come, as well as Anvari and Russandol. He could tell that the grand assembly of captains and allies made Anarion slightly nervous, but Aragorn had decided that the Ranger’s message was best heard by the full circle that stood with them, instead of having to be repeated thrice.

 

“You said you encountered Aelin, Anarion,” Boromir addressed the Ranger, pointing him towards the map. It would be easier if he gave them the places where he’d been that way, because not everyone here knew the borderlands well.

 

“I originally encountered him and his two companions on Ashtrail pass, assisted them to cross Dark Echoes pass and eventually entered the Morgai about here.” Anarion indicated the places on the map. “The Morgai is one army camp, as are the Plains of Gorgoroth and most of Udûn, if the campfires we saw at night are any indication,” he went on. “Aelin told me that with these troops standing between them and their destination, they’d have to take the long way round, along the Thorn of Nurn, Gap of Gorgoroth, Ashen path, evading Barad-Dûr narrowly and on… to wherever they need to go. He bade me to bring word back to you that they were still going, though it will take them several more weeks to complete the task.”

 

“What impression did the three make to you?” Aragorn asked. “How was their shape? How were they holding up? Can they last for several weeks inside the dark land?”

 

Anarion turned to face him, inclining his head slightly. “I am not versed in judging the shape of Elves, my Lord, but they seemed to be well together and neither wounded nor overly exhausted. Aelin certainly is more versed in living off the land in such a dark place than any Ranger I ever met, and they still held onto some provisions they brought from earlier on their path. I left all my own provisions with them, along with several other things that they could use. If they are careful and avoid major injury, they could last for several months before exhaustion and hunger take them.”

 

It was an honest assessment, if Aragorn had ever heard any. Though it amused him that Anarion had mistaken the Halflings for small elves, it seemed that neither Sam nor Frodo had corrected him that, which was in itself a smart decision, as the Enemy was looking for Halflings, not Elves.

 

“They cannot last.” Gandalf’s voice was gravelly as he spoke. “Not for weeks in the shadow of Barad-Dûr itself, not with what Frodo carries. The Enemy will sense his presence before long and the hunt will begin.”

 

The Ring, Boromir understood. Sauron would feel the presence close by and send his troops after the three. No matter how stealthy, no one could outlast a full-fledged hunt of the Shadow for long. “Then we need to distract the Enemy, make him focus on other matters, maybe even think that one of us… that one of us has what he desires.” The last was not easily said, but it might work.

 

“What Frodo needs most is time and a safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth, without needing to sneak through half the Black Lands,” Aragorn said, his eyes going over the map on the wall. “We need to lure Sauron out, force him to move his troops away from Gorgoroth towards Udûn.”

 

“A challenge he cannot ignore.” Kíli’s deep voice sounded like he already liked the idea. “Force him to focus on an immediate threat, something he fears, like an attack.”

 

“What hope do we have to gain victory through strength of arms?” Éomer shook his head. “Sauron still has the bulk of his armies intact…”

 

“And he is not free of fears and doubts yet.” Boromir’s eyes shone as he spoke. “He fears Aragorn and the world of Men united under one banner, he fears another alliance against him, bringing all the strength of this world to bear. He is not yet as strong to be beyond fear, and the retreating armies will carry the seed of doubt and fear already inside them. We need to carry the war back to him, to drive him into a last risk that will be his undoing.”

 

“March on the Black Gates.” Aragorn felt a cold chill as he spoke. He knew this was the right decision. It was what they needed to do, but a part of him also feared he was using Boromir as the weapon he saw himself as. On the other hand, what choice did they have? He looked up and saw absolute agreement in the green eyes of the Captain of Gondor. “We will assemble our armies, all that we have, and march on the Black Gate. We challenge Sauron so openly and brazenly that he cannot afford to ignore us. In his fear he will focus on us, giving our friends the chance they need.”

 

TRB

 

Minas Tirith, city of war, Aragorn had never felt it more keenly than in these hours, not even on the day he had seen her scorched, still smoldering from battle, but still standing. Everywhere in the city troops were assembling, being readied to march before nightfall. Messengers ran to and fro, carrying orders, but they were only a small supporting wheel in the well-organized war machine that awoke in the city. Maybe this was why it hurt him so much to see it. He well recalled the marshaling of the troops for the Umbar campaign, back when Turayne had been Captain of Gondor and Ecthelion Steward. It had been a peaceful city slowly awakening to the campaign, but now it was a city of war, and who was still here knew his task, from the highest Captain to the lowest stable hand.

 

“Someone once told me that a man was as young as his hopes and as old as his doubts.” Boromir had joined him on the battlements of the citadel. He was back in full field armor, his horse already being saddled down in the yard.

 

“Doubts, no. I know we do what we have to,” Aragorn replied. “Though I wonder what will await us there.” He pointed yonder, where the shadow of Mordor was always visible in the skies.

 

“Anarion said Khamûl took command of Minas Morgul and named Idrakhán marshal of the legions. Now, that is two names I know very well and they will probably try to play us with cunning tactics and a few monsters, if they get their way.” Boromir shrugged. “Shakurán will be able to tell me more about each and every legion leader we’ll encounter. I sent him ahead to scout the grounds.”

 

“And you are going with the vanguard.” They had already debated that. and Boromir had successfully insisted that Aragorn, as Isildur’s Heir, belonged with the main army. “I heard you are taking the dwarves with the vanguard too.”

 

“They can march through the night without too much impact,” Boromir told him. “And they will be great at building makeshift bridges for the crossing near Cair Andros. They and the Lord of the Dragon Forges’… I mean Russandol’s troops will be the first to reach the river and we will need those arriving first to be swiftly across the river or help facilitate the crossing for the rest. Cair Andros’ old bridges were destroyed decades ago when they became a liability.”

 

And again there it was: the war shaping this land, shaping an entire generation of their people. Aragorn wondered how long it would take for Gondor to recover from these wounds. “I hope we will catch up to you in Cair Andros,” he said, by way of goodbye. Something warned him against saying goodbye to Boromir yet, for if he did, it might be forever.

 

TRB

 

The dusk of the next day saw the island of Cair Andros a bustling warcamp. Thick lines of rope swam in the water, holding chopped tree trunk pieces in place. They formed swimming bridges that moved under every step, but allowed for a quick crossing. Of the ancient ferries the island still had, four had been taken into service, running on long ropes as to not let them drift downriver. They were mainly used to ferry supplies and horses across. Boromir knew the main army would arrive by morning and he was satisfied how fast the progress on the crossing was. The river was a major obstacle for any army and they were making good on preparing for the main bulk of the troops. It had taken a heavy collision with the commander of Cair Andros, who had not been happy about the number of strangers turning his fortified island upside down.

 

He saw Kíli stride up to him. The dwarf still had an axe shouldered and his wet hair bespoke his time too close to the water. “The third bridge will be done before dark,” he said. “And Fion reports that the elven bridge is standing too, although it is only safe for those to use who are not afraid of heights. They built a rope bridge across. Their horses will either swim or need ferrying much as ours do as well.”

 

“The horses and supplies will need to be transported on ferries, but if we can free the river ships from having to bring across the men as well, we will be faster on the other side,” he replied. “The Enemy will know we are marching, and he too will prepare.”

 

“Any news from your scout?” Kíli asked, tension audible in his voice. “He is gone long enough as it is.”

 

“I told him not to return to Cair Andros.” Boromir could feel the tension radiating from Kíli in intense waves. “It would be too dangerous. He knows where to meet us on the other side.” He wished he did not have to have this conversation; Kíli’s anger was not something he liked to risk. “I understand you are not happy with my decision regarding Shakurán and I understand that you have every right to hate him.”

 

“The moment you did not kill him on the field, I knew you were not going to kill him at all.” Kíli put down the axe, his eyes going back to the river, where darkness settled swiftly and called an end to the workings. “You never were a cruel man, Boromir. You would have killed him on the field, if that had been your intention.”

 

It was an aspect of Kíli that Boromir always found hard to deal with; the cold, matter-of-factly way of dealing with givens and the closing off against anyone else. He had rarely seen it in his friend, but now more pronounced than ever before. “His son killed Thorin… Do not think I did not know it.”

 

“And my father killed his father and sent his head back to the Empire.” Kíli’s voice was rough as he spoke. “And you probably saw more men fall from his blade than I can count. Do… do you know the story of Terék-Khadar, the Black Mountain?”

 

“I feel I should have heard the name before, but I cannot place it.” Boromir wondered what Kíli meant. The question seemed out of context, but he was relieved that Kíli was talking about it at all.

 

“There once were several families of Linnar’s folk living in the Southern Reaches of the Ered Luin in the Elder days.” Kíli’s voice changed as he began to speak, like it was a tale he had often heard and maybe told to children. “These families hated each other for many generations, because all of them claimed that they had found a certain spring where rare gemstones were found first. They warred over it. Murder, slander and other crimes heaped up as generations passed until the feud killed the betrothed of one of the families, a noble dwarf from Belegost and a terrible curse befell the families, for they had murdered an innocent dwarrowdam. They tried to lift the curse or free themselves of their guilt, but no judge in Belegost or Nogrod could make heads or tails of their muddled history. Wishing the debt for the death settled, they sought others, but no one could help them until a wise old dwarf advised them to go to Moria and put their case before Durin the Deathless.”

 

As Boromir watched Kíli, he realized it was less anger he could see in him, but pain, a pain tightly held in check. He wanted to reach out and somehow try to help him, but he knew he could not.

 

“Durin the Deathless welcomed them and had them recount all their story from the very first finding of the creek and the very first murder. His scribes would list all the kills, all the dead, all the misdeeds in one big book, and in the end it was full with their history of blood. Then Durin spoke: _You all carry a debt of blood towards the others,_ he said, _for each of you bears his share of misdeeds and hate, of blood and treachery. You owe each other such a debt in life and blood as only brothers and family usually do. So hear my judgment: together you shall sojourn to the Black Mountain in the Northern Reaches of the Hitheaglir and build a city there. You will each help the other, aid one another like he was your brother and never speak an ill word against those you carry a debt with. Only thus you can find forgiveness for what you did. But that your toil may not be without hope, I shall permit you to come here every tenth year and read the book of your deeds. And mayhap, as time passes, you will find it in your hearts to forgive the one or other deed penned down there._

 

And so it happened: the families ventured to the Black Mountain and began to work there. They chafed under the judgment at first, but as time passed, they got used to each other and began to wonder why they had hated each other in the first place. And by the time their grandchildren were born, they had all but forgotten the reasons for their punishment and the curse finally lifted. The last to remember went to Durin the Deathless and asked him to keep the black book of their deeds well locked away, in case the greed ever overcame her people again. And thus it was done.”

 

As he heard Kíli speak, Boromir slowly recalled Kíli telling him the same story. They had been sitting by a small fire, somewhere in the deeps, and Kíli had told him of the ancient legends of his people. It had been a good, comradely moment between battles, far from their current tension. Suddenly he felt Kíli’s hand on his arm and he turned to look at him. The dark eyes of the dwarf were stormy. “I may want to hate Shakurán and I may want to hack him to pieces, and maybe with good cause, but that does not make it _right._ And no revenge will ever heal the pain we feel. I learned that when I saw Nori hanged… It did not help me to forget how my mother had died. Nothing will ever come of revenge, but more pain, more blood and more suffering, and…” His voice trailed off and Boromir could feel the turmoil that was still inside Kíli.

 

Wordlessly he grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close. It was as close a hug as could be without their height difference becoming awkward. “I wish… I wish I knew an answer, Kíli, or I knew where you find the strength.” He felt the hug returned for a moment before Kíli pulled back. Their eyes met and they both understood. They’d pull through, together, no matter what came their way. There was nothing that could divide them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LadyDunla was her marvelous self again and sorted through my mistakes in no time. (I am really really sorry about the name confusion, I have most names noted in scrapbook on my desk, but sometimes I wrote down four or five versions of the name and when in my writing sprees, I sometime use the wrong one, like Fion/Fionn. I will try to get better at it.)
> 
> This chapter suffered from one of my heavy migraines, my head still feels like someone is hammering on it with a heavy tool… so I can’t say if I’ll be able to write another chappie for tomorrow or not. But I’ll try.


	37. A spark in the darkness

Éowyn saw the rope fray as she stepped off the swimming bridge, and while she was relieved though she might be having firm ground beneath her feet again, she also saw the immediate danger. The entire bridge was a contraption of ropes and wood, swimming on the river, and with the main rope fraying, it was in danger of breaking and maybe even drifting away. “Stay where you are, Brithonin!” she called out to her faithful right hand, who had guided a whole group of the girls over the wobbly crossing. “Tell the others to not move.” She hoped that would take enough strain off the rope to buy her time.

 

Only that she had no idea how to fix the bridge and she wondered who in the world had come by the idea to string pieces of wood through loops or ropes and span them across the great river. No sensible man should come by such idea… Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt when she saw the ferry with the horses pull onto the sandbank to unload her cargo. The ancient river ship too ran on ropes to prevent her from drifting into the bridges and Éowyn could see several dwarves using the unloading time to check the vessel for damage. Dwarves, they were everywhere along the shore, assisting with the transport and doing repairs. They might know what to do with that bridge.

 

She looked around and spotted one of them: Anvari. With him were Raedan and Haleth and they were discussing something, it seemed. “Anvari.” Éowyn approached them hastily. “The second bridge has a fraying rope and I doubt it can hold for much longer.”

 

All three followed her toward the shore at once. “We’ll take a look, my Lady,” Anvari replied. “With the army crossing that swiftly, it is a miracle we didn’t lose one of the bridges to overuse already. When Boromir says hurry, he certainly means it.”

 

Éowyn laughed softly; the cheerful mood of the dwarf infected her. “There is no ‘my Lady’ here, Anvari,” she told him. “And certainly not from a Prince of foreign lands. It will simply be Éowyn or Dernhelm, until this war is over.” Titles did not belong in an army camp. Rank was unimportant when fighting for one’s life, and the highest son might be placed under the command of a sheepherder if necessary.

 

They reached the shore and Anvari deftly jumped on the stones, reaching out into the water to take a look at the damaged portion of the bridge. “You are right, Éowyn. The main rope must have been cut by something during a previous crossing. It is slowly coming apart.”

 

“Can it be stabilized somehow, through another rope maybe?” Haleth had squatted down ashore, studying the frayed portion close to the water’s edge. Éowyn noticed how much the youth had grown from the shy boy he had been in Helm’s Deep. Two battles, a war… it was shaping him into a man before his time, and he seemed well at ease with the dwarf Éomer had put in charge of them.

 

“I think so. Can you get the ropes from Bifur?” Anvari called back. “I will try to get those warriors still trapped off the bridge, just in case.” While Haleth headed off to procure the ropes necessary for the repairs, Anvari went onto the bridge, leading the girls towards the damaged part, and then helped them to jump onto the rocks like he had done before, to reach the shore. Éowyn watched, surprised at the sense of balance the dwarf displayed on the uneven stones. More than once it was his strong grip that saved one of the girls from falling into the rushing water.

 

Raedan had gone out onto the rocks as far as his own balance allowed, helping as well. By the time Haleth returned with a pony carrying ropes, all of Éowyn’s people were off the bridge. Silently she watched as Haleth threw the first rope to Anvari, who began to sling it into the construction, to hold it. The process was repeated five times, until there was a fan of ropes holding the failing construction in place again. While Haleth and Raedan secured the ropes ashore, Anvari began to weave a second rope along the damaged main rope. He had begun to whistle a tune while he worked, a happy sounding, cheerful tune in the rhythm of a light march or a dance. Éowyn noticed that the young warriors knew it too, for Haleth began to hum it along as he pulled the last rope towards the pole holding it.

 

She handed him another pole to stabilize the hold of the rope. “I don’t think I ever heard that song before,” she said. A part of her was glad that those youngsters had come through the nightmare of two battles still able to know the joy of a song, and another part in her could not stop worrying for them.

 

“It is one of Anvari’s.” Raedan had cut two more pegs for the ropes. “I think dwarves have more songs than us, sometimes.” He fell in with the tune, adding the words that went with it.

 

We follow the road, where the wind might fall,

We climb the mountains, be they low or tall,

And we turn our horse, when we hear the call,

To fight the Lord of Shadows.

 

Beyond the old road, we follow a star,

Through wood and waste, no matter how far,

And we come home when called for war,

To fight the Lord of Shadows.

 

We ride across mountains under the moon,

We follow the wind’s perpetual tune,

And we go back, for the call comes soon,

To fight the Lord of Shadows.

 

There’s hope and happiness under the light,

There is believe in a warrior’s might,

But my oath, my oath is forever tied

To fight the Lord of Shadows.

 

The song went on, and Éowyn could not help but shiver. It was too cheerful, too happy, for something like this, for the war it spoke of. The last rope was affixed and bridge was stable again. Anvari came back ashore, greeting his two comrades with a light clap to the shoulder. “And the High King of the Elves said: Gather an army like this world has not seen before, for we will ride East and bring the Dark Lord to justice.” His words sounded much like the quote of a legend, though there was a grin sparkling in Anvari’s eyes. “And there three heroes here better get to the upper ferry for their horses. They will long be across and we’ll never hear the end of it from Althaine.” All three laughed. They gathered up the pack pony and headed on.

 

Thoughtfully Éowyn watched after them. Songs and legends were the way her people remembered their history. Stories passed on through generations and songs were sung for even longer after. Either the dwarves were not so much different in that regard or Anvari had swiftly understood that fact about his new comrades.

 

“Éowyn?” The voice had come unannounced from her side. Her hand fell to the sword as she spun around, only to realize it was Faramir who had approached her. She had never heard his soft step.

 

“Faramir.” Éowyn made herself relax and let go of her sword. “If you are looking for Éomer, he still is on the other side, to see all the éoreds sent across without chaos.” Though she would swear her brother disliked those wobbly bridges more than he would ever admit.

 

“I know. He will not be across until after nightfall.” Faramir smiled slightly; maybe he shared her observations about her brother. “It was you I was seeking. Gondor lost almost two thirds of the Rangers during the battle in Minas Tirith, leaving us deprived of archers for the battle to come and your brother told me that you have a large number of archers under your command.”

 

“That is correct and wrong all the same,” Éowyn replied as they walked towards the place where her girls were gathering. “Many of mine are indeed archers primarily, but they are not a regular archer force. Their bows range from a short rider’s bow to pinewood curved bows and a few woodland composite bows that came to us through trade. I believe I even saw a number of northern yew longbows with the girls from Westmarch, even if I have no idea how these bows ever came to Rohan, and their training is just as diverse. Shortbow and curved bow archers are normally used to shoot while riding. The others should be foot archers, but use the bows as secondary weapons after dismounting.” She looked to Faramir who had followed her words without any hint of impatience. “Though we may be able to turn them into archery auxiliaries if that’s what we need.”

 

“Rangers too are rarely used as an open battle force,” Faramir replied, looking around in the gathering camp. If the sight of so many girls in arms fazed him, he did not show it. “But we all will be needed as a field archer force in the battles ahead.” And together they began to plan out how to mesh the remaining archers of Gondor with the Rohan archers. Their discussion and organization lasted till late into the night.

 

TRB

 

Night fell along the river when the last horses were led onto a ferry to bring them across. Elrohir watched the vessel push off and make its way out onto the great river. While many things had changed for him, his eyesight had luckily remained the same, though the darkness seemed deeper somehow. “That was the last of them,” he observed as the vessel was not much more but a dark spot on the waters, and the lantern of the ferry the only bright spot on the river. “I doubt there are many left on this side still, apart from the  supplies and they will be shipping all night.”

 

“With Boromir set on marching come sunrise, they better hurry,” Éomer replied. “I never saw anyone push a troop that hard and still make it work. Which bridges are still open?”

 

Elrohir heard a slight tension on Éomer’s voice. There had been many warriors who disliked the makeshift crossings they were to use, but Éomer tried harder than others not to show his trepidation. “The first bridge is still there, as is the Elven bridge.”

 

“Water or heights.” Éomer shook his head. “Let us take the first bridge. I think I heard Fion say that the elves are moving supplies across the high bridge now.”

 

Together they went to the last of the swimming bridges still there. To Elrohir the bridge presented little trouble, and yet… He noticed how different his own balance was, like all his senses were that much stronger grounded in their surroundings, affecting almost everything that he did. He had never felt stronger or more whole than this, but nevertheless the changes went deeper than he had ever expected. Behind him he heard Éomer curse as he almost lost his footing on the slippery wood. Elrohir turned around to assist him.

 

“Dwarves!” Éomer grumbled. “Only they can think of a construction as wildly unstable as this one. Do they think we are all elves who never slip or fall?”

 

“You should see the contraptions they build underground or what they do with Orc constructions.” Elrohir kept on walking backwards, keeping an eye on Éomer, even as he tried to distract him. “Above ground dwarves are more careful, for it is not their natural surroundings.”

 

Éomer snorted. “I saw Kíli in Orthanc, Elrohir, and what he and Boromir did with those bridges was insane. And he certainly was not fazed by being above ground most of the time. Anvari does not seem to, either.”

 

“Kíli was born on the surface during the wandering years and Anvari….” Elrohir vividly recalled the small dwarfling, tainted by a poison he could not even name. “Anvari’s path led elsewhere.”

 

They reached the other side and Elrohir stepped off the bridge. His balance was askew for a moment, but he prevented a full stumble by swiftly finding hold in the trunk of a nearby tree. Éomer strode off the bridge, reaching him only a moment later. “Are you all right? Light, between being a healer and a warrior you cannot have seen much rest since the battle.”

 

Elrohir straightened up, finding his balance again. “I am not that tired, Éomer. I had some sleep while we stayed in Minas Tirith. Let us find the éoreds before your sister takes command of them.” He could see how the joke made Éomer’s eyes light up with a laugh that would never be voiced.

 

But the Rohirrim became serious very swiftly again. “You are beginning to feel it, aren’t you? The change?” he asked, his voice earnest, if slightly worried.

 

“How do you know?” Elrohir could not quite hide the surprise. He had been sure few had noticed the change in him. He had managed to keep it away from Estel for the time being.

 

“It is obvious,” Éomer said. “Your change… You suddenly became real, like you were one of us. And then… you did sleep, though I believe you had to learn how to truly sleep and not just dream away, like the others elves do. You can tire, though you tire much more slowly than I do.” He frowned, his brows forming a sharp V on his forehead. “And I am not stupid. There are stories, old songs, about Elves who became mortal and I think it is what happened to you.”

 

Éomer truly kept surprising Elrohir. Compared to Theodred’s thoughtful presence, he often appeared as the uneducated warrior, the fighter with little care beyond the war and his horses. However, there was more to him; he was a keen observer and, like many of his people, he had a wonderful memory for legends. Stories… If it was in a song, the Rohirrim might know of it and Elrohir wondered what form the tale of Lúthien or Idril might have taken in their songs. Maybe even part of Aegnor’s tale had survived amongst them. “It was my choice,” he replied. He had not spoken to anyone about it; it was strange to say out loud what was a truth of his soul.

 

“You chose to become mortal? It was not something Saruman did?” Éomer’s surprise was palpable in his entire demeanor. “Why…?” He shook his head. “If there is anything Men envied the Firstborn for, it was the Immortality and you gave it up out of your own free will. Why?”

 

“Being and Elf… means being part of two worlds.” Elrohir spoke slowly, searching for the words to describe what he only had felt for so long. “One part of you is here, in Arda, and another belongs to the Undying Lands. Many elves are so strongly drawn back to the Undying Lands that they wither here. And Arda’s darkness is opposite to our very existence, fading away our substance over time. Many elves… they shy away from this world and seek to return to Valinor, to return to the Light.” It was something he had never quite understood, the striving for that place beyond. “I… I belong to Arda, Éomer, with all that I am, with all that it means, war and sorrow, pain and loss. It where I belong and where I will remain for as long as I endure. There will be no ship for me, no fading into the Light. And maybe… maybe when my time comes, I will be permitted to see my friends again, in that world far away that they speak off.”

 

He did not know what had brought this on, why he had spoken to honestly of it, but it made it easier, like there had been a silent burden resting on his shoulders for a long time, maybe since his mother had departed on that pale ship long ago. On that day he had known he’d never follow her, that he’d not see her again, and no allure, no matter how strong, could draw him towards these other shores.

 

TRB

 

Boromir had chosen the place for their small campfire purposefully on the eastern edge of the campsites. They were almost outside the regular circles of the guards, well hidden under the trees of Ithilien. The fire burned low and Boromir knew it would not go out as long as Kíli was close by. Somehow the fire itself seemed different if it was Kíli’s. Maybe he imagined things, but it felt more familiar somehow. Light steps in the darkness alerted him to someone approaching; his hand sank to the sword and he saw Kíli reach for his blade as well.

 

“It is I,” a familiar voice said in low tones, as Shakurán emerged from the shadows. He wore the same armor he had worn in battle; the dark scale mail armor of Minas Morgul that would allow him to easily pass for one of the many soldiers on the other side. “I had not expected you to be here so swiftly. You certainly startled Rogtar’s scouts earlier in the day.”

 

Boromir relaxed and let go of the sword. “Shakurán, I had hoped you might reach us soon, though I was not sure you could. So their scouts are already reporting to Udûn about our approach?”

 

“Udûn and Minas Morgul, given that Khamûl is in charge of the armies now,” Shakurán replied, squatting down by the fire. “And now they are scrambling to move troops. When I flew over Udûn earlier in the day I saw mainly Orc camps down there. The Haradrim and other forces must still be standing in Morgai and Gorgoroth, as they were expected to march on Minas Tirith through the pass near Minas Morgul. By the time you arrive at Morannon, the first legions from Morgai could have reached Udûn, provided they do not collide with the legions from the Ered Lithui that are on their way as well. The Ashland legions are a nasty bunch, even amongst Orcs.”

 

“They have seen us. Good.” Boromir had hoped the Enemy would spot them early and begin to move his troops towards Udûn. “What of the land between us and Morannon?”

 

“There were still stragglers during the last days.” Shakurán’s eyes went to the surrounding woods. “The retreat from Pelennor got scattered somewhere at the Riverline, do not ask me why – Haradrim are bound to make a mess of clear orders. During the last day, though, Drakhár riders picked up most of the Haradrim stragglers and the Orcs were driven towards the Mountains by their own kind. There should be next to no troops between you and Morannon. Although I think that your Ranger hideout in Whispering Grove is still surviving. I found a good number of slain Orcs and Haradrim in the area, and almost all of them got shot as well.”

 

There was an edge of grim humor in the Easterling’s voice and Boromir could see the irony too well. “What could you find out about who holds command in Morannon?”

 

Shakurán had sat down cross-legged, leaning his arms on his upper legs as he spoke on. “Khamûl took charge of the army and named Idrakhán marshal of the legions, so he is bound to be in either Morgai or Udûn already, depending on how swiftly he whips the troops back into shape. Aringryl is still in command of the gate. You should remember him; he was the one you met at Amen Ford ten years ago. He never quite forgot how you twisted his plans around. Hagrán is in charge of the main Udûn garrisons. You cannot know him; he only came in from the Firelands a year ago. He is hard, fierce and very efficient. Since he was used to deal with the Fireland denizens, he holds the garrisons within a fierce drill and the Orcs are bound to hate him.”

 

Boromir listened intently, storing away all the information on the various leaders, their quirks and problems. Within one hour Shakurán had answered many questions that had plagued him for years. When silence finally fell over their conversation, he exchanged a glance with Kíli, knowing the dwarf too had listened, even if he had said little.

 

“There is little else for now,” Shakurán said. “I can sneak out again and see what else I can find out.”

 

“No.” Boromir held him back. “We know what we need to know. And there is something else…” It was harder to speak of than the war, or planning ahead for the battle to come. “I need your knowledge on something else and you are the only one who may know something about it, about what happened to me in Minas Morgul.”

 

Shakurán’s head titled in an almost alarmed gesture, reminiscent of a startled hawk. “What I know of that is of second hand only. I was never fully in on the plan. Though I did question Idrakhán about it, when you began to fight like…”

 

“Like one of you when they worked their magic on you?” Boromir finished the line. “Shakurán, I know there is something inside me, something dark and powerful. Sometimes I can almost feel it, like an echo ringing from afar. I doubt I understand it, I only let it happen so far.”

 

“You… you let it happen?” Shakurán was short of jumping up. “Blessed ignorance. Only you could come up with such a plan, Son of the Sea Kings.”

 

“So you know what it is?” It was the first time Kíli spoke up, but his deep voice was steady as ever. “I have been going over any bit of black artifact lore I know to try and explain it, without any success so far.”

 

“That is because it did not come from any artifact.” Shakurán looked forth and back between them. “What you were given, Boromir, is called a dark seed. It is a spark of pure darkness, of the greater night itself, and it was lodged into your soul. Such a spark can only be called forth through another soul or a wraith, and without the proper training to handle such a power, you should have gone mad within hours of the dark seed unfolding itself. The dark seed, once unfolding, takes shape according to the nature of its bearer. The signs you show – the restlessness, the greed to kill, the bloodlust and even some slight bouts of irrationality – would also show in someone trained to live with such a gift, but for someone untrained, it would cause a quick slide into madness.”

 

“So it is like a taint of darkness directly lodged into the soul, like a forced awakening of powers?” Kíli asked, curiosity and care for Boromir overruling whatever he thought of the man he was talking to. “Like an exposure to the Well of Darkness, only it circumvented the body and went directly into his soul?”

 

Shakurán’s gaze turned to the dwarf. “I keep forgetting I am talking to one of an ancient house. You would remember the tales of the dark from before the Rise of the First Sun,” he said, a touch of fascination in his voice. “And yes, you are right on the principle. It is like a spark had been planted right into his soul, and there is no way to remove it. I am amazed that Denethor was able to tame it so far.”

 

“My father had nothing to do with it,” Boromir replied. The explanation felt right, it fit with what he sensed of himself. “And yes, there are times when I feel like I am losing myself, like the anger, the bloodlust are coming too close, but Kíli has been guiding me out of it. He was there the moment the darkness came, that day in…” He could not speak on; the memory came too close.

 

A shuffle was audible beside him and then Kíli squatted down beside him. “You are not alone in this, my friend,” the dwarf said warmly, the echo of the bond reaching for Boromir, like a flame in the darkness. “And you never will be.”

 

“Are you saying your minds were linked at the time the seed was planted?” Shakurán’s dark eyes widened. “Night above, how could they not think of it? The dragon… That strange mark on your arm...” He looked at them. “The dragonbane seal? I had always thought it was a myth, a story from the Elder days.”

 

“You know of it?” Boromir asked, expecting another friendly jab about the education of a citizen of the Empire, but instead he saw Shakurán shake his head.

 

“I know legends, Boromir, stories of Durin the Deathless and Turayne the Dark Elven Wanderer, stories of the Durin II and Talion, and of course there was Frérin Dragonsbane, who gave my people a few headaches that survive in the chronicles. But… the dragonbane seal was supposedly a legend, a story the dwarves came up with. To see it real…” He shook his head. “Damn it, Idrá. You had to make a mess of things, as usual.”

 

“How would a dark seed react to such a bond?” Kíli asked, and there was the edge of a slight bemusement at Shakurán’s reaction in his voice. “Could it integrate into both?”

 

“If I knew that, I’d deem myself wise indeed,” Shakurán replied. “I doubt it was ever tried on people of linked minds, but you might truly be his balance, Kíli, the reason why he remained sane, why he was able to intuitively tap into the darkness without adverse effects.”

 

“Is there a way to truly reach into that… seed?” Boromir asked. “To truly make use of it, unleash it, if you will? Or does that require other blessings to go ahead of it?”

 

“What Shakurán said, it sounded to me like you were given a dark version of the flame – a well of strength barely veiled inside your soul.” Kíli looked at Boromir. “And your very nature might allow you to draw onto that power. It reminds me a little of what happened to Anvari, with the only difference that they went for your soul directly.”

 

“Why would you even want to dig deeper into that power?” Shakurán asked. “You can be glad that you survived without insanity so far. And if you two are balancing out in such a way, you might stand a chance in the longer run… Digging deeper will only heighten the risk.”

 

“Because we need every edge we can get when we reach the Black Gate,” Boromir met Shakurán’s eyes steadily. “The East might fear the Lord of the Morning, but to be effective in the battle to come, I need some control over what was given to me.” He turned back to Kíli. The worry in his friend’s eyes made him hesitate a little. “Kíli, if you do not want any part of this… You already bear too much of this and…”

 

“Stop it.” Kíli shook his head. “I told you that you’d never be alone with what you bear, no matter where that path leads. No matter how far I have to go, I will go this way with you to the very end.”

 

A warmth spread inside Boromir. Knowing that Kíli would be with him gave him confidence. Together they could tame whatever had happened to him. “So, how do you access the dark seed, Shakurán?”

 

“Through meditation mostly.” Shakurán shook his head. “And I doubt you ever learned even the basics of that. The other would be the embrace of the spark, as one with the talent might do it.”

 

“I think I know what you speak of,” Kíli said. “I can try to show to Boromir how to do it, but you need to stay close, Shakurán, for you will be the only one to know if something goes wrong.” Mahal help him, but he had to trust Shakurán on this, because the Easterling knew this kind of gift of darkness.

 

TRB

 

Idrakhán strode over the broad walls of Morannon. Down there chaos was abating, as the new legions were digging in or sent to their respective barracks. “Who in the name of that old demented beast in Moria put a Firelander in charge of Orcs, Tani? Who is so supremely stupid?” he growled towards the man walking by his side. He was glad that his new promotion had allowed him to call Tani back to his legion. While Tani was older than him, be brought an experience with Orcs few others had and he was not the least angry to see a younger man rise above himself.

 

“Someone who believed that Orcs can be led through some stupid Firelands drill.” Tani’s voice echoed wry amusement. The redhead stood out amongst the troops that were mainly Haradrim or true Easterlings, but he moved amongst them with the ease of a man long at home in the black lands. “Morgai is slowly coming with their legions and half the commanders are wondering why they should be digging in.”

 

“Because they are ordered to dig in with their legions.” Idrakhán shook his head, “What happened to putting intelligent people in charge of the legions, what happened to strategy? Do these fools really think that we will charge out of that gate and play a nice field battle with that little Númenoran King and his rabble?”

 

“That’s what they expect. Whispers are that something is out there, something that Barad-Dûr wants, and thus we are going to get it.” Tani repeated the rumors he had heard amongst the troops with the voice of a man long used to disregard the talk amongst the ranks. “Even the Orcs are whispering that some Elven Conspiracy is on, and that Menfolk has something that the High Ups want. And if the Orcs already know it, half Mordor is bound to believe it.”

 

“What the Orcs are thinking today, Mordor is going to say tomorrow, is that so?” Idrakhán almost barked. “It is high time someone reduced their numbers significantly to teach them a lesson.” His temper cooled down and he stopped on an empty passage of the long wall. “They are not wrong, Tani. Khamûl himself is saying the same. One of them out there has something, the very something we were hunting in Eriador, months ago.”

 

Tani whistled appreciatively. “Do we know who has it, because I doubt there are any Halflings around that army, at least if what the scouts say is true.”

 

“The Halflings were most likely killed by Saruman,” Idrakhán shrugged. “My brother’s report indicated as much, so it is very likely that either their little King or Boromir has IT now. My bet is on Boromir.” He smiled, dark eyes shining. “And now finally all plans can come to fruition. Believing to fight us he will come here, and driven by the darkness he carries he will bear that very thing he has to the gates of the Tower itself. He will do our work, believing he is fighting us.”

 

“Ingenious,” Tani grinned at him. “Sounds like one of your better plans, Idrá. So, we do not come out, but let him come in? That’s not going to sit well with a lot of legions, but if they don’t dig in, they’ll be amongst the losses. Maybe a hard lesson is needed here.”

 

Idrakhán thought about it. Maybe Tani was right; legions not obeying the plan would most likely incur heavy losses, a lesson on discipline that would be sorely needed in days to come. “Very well, Tani, do not whip them into line. They have their orders. Let’s see how they fare if they ignore them.”

 

Together they stood high upon the wall of Morannon, the Black Gate, watching down into the land where far away the campfires of the Gondorian warcamp burned. “Not even the Elves stormed this gate easily,” Idrakhán said with a grim smile. “Let us see how Boromir fares at it.”

 

TRB

 

“Let go of yourself, relinquish all that you feel to the void around you. You are standing in a hall of stone so vast you cannot see the walls. There is nothing but an empty vastness around you.” Kíli’s voice had taken on a deep, though almost musical, quality as he spoke. “Bleed into the void, into the emptiness. You do not feel, you do not think… you _are.”_  Boromir could almost feel Kíli’s presence there, like he could sense him, only separated through a barrier of mist. The exercise did not come easily to him, but it gave him a sense of control, of calm.

 

“Now, reach out into the darkness, find the spark…” In Boromir’s mind he could see the spark, much like the flame he had seen back on the day in Minas Morgul when he had first seen Kíli in his mind. And even now when he reached for the dark spark inside his mind, he could also sense Kíli, the flame that anchored him. “You are the darkness given shape, you are the shadow becoming flame, guiding the wanderer…”

 

It almost felt like the rush of battle, but much, much more intense. Boromir felt the tendrils of darkness uncoil inside him, the bloodthirst surge up, the rage… the icy edge of insanity, but they could not reach him. They were barred from touching him by a bright flame, shielding him against the destruction. He opened his eyes and looked at Kíli, who sat opposite of him. He could hardly describe what he felt or what they might have unlocked, but for a moment he believed to see a layered star shining in the ground, surrounding them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. I am amazed how you always put up with my weird sentences. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* 
> 
> My head has decided to still give me troubles, I wrote parts of this during the night when the migraines wouldn’t let me sleep. I hope it’ll stop soon because I don’t want to take a day’s break from writing… but I might if things don’t change.


	38. The fires of Udûn

Scarily rang the echoes of Gandalf’s voice through the valley of Morannon, but his answer was silence, just as Aragorn’s call had been met with silence before. In the light of the spring afternoon the desolate valley before the Black Gate seemed a little less dreary than it usually was, but there was neither answer nor reaction to their presence at the very gates of the Black Lands. Boromir’s eyes scanned the heights, the hidden pathways that would lead in a circle back to the gate, expecting a flank attack, but there too was nothing, and a swift signal from Faramir confirmed that the Ranger did not spot any sign of impending attack anywhere.

 

“They are not taking the bait.” Aragorn’s voice was tense, as was his gaze towards the mighty walls of Morannon. “The Enemy… he is not taking the bait.” His glance went to Boromir, whose horse was by his side. “What do you think?”

 

“They want us to storm their walls. They know they have the advantage,” Boromir replied, eyes still fixed on Morannon itself. “They have been moving troops throughout Udûn, probably to create staggered defense lines to bolster their fortifications in case of break-through. Now they wait for us to try and come for them. Smart tactic.”

 

“Storming these walls is madness.” Gandalf’s pale eyebrows furrowed as he cast a sharp glare towards Boromir. He had not been very comfortable with his presence by Aragorn’s side as they rode towards this battle. “We do not have the numbers for such a venture. Our plan hinged on the Enemy coming out.”

 

“Maybe all is not lost yet,” Aragorn said to him before he turned again to Boromir. “Can you think of any strategy? Of any way to force the Enemy into battle… or take the gate?”

 

“Not through a direct storm,” Boromir replied. His mind was already racing, turning the factors they had into a plan. “But through a bit of craftiness we may have a chance. Have the armies seemingly dig-in, like we are going to lay Siege to the Gate.”

 

“A Siege does not help us,” Gandalf interjected. “And you should remember that much.”

 

Boromir felt the wish to stab the wizard rise inside him, an irrational anger that almost had him reach for his sword. He focused on Kíli, on the echo of their bond, and the anger abated. “We will not lay a Siege, Gandalf,” he said. “Unlike some others I have plans for my dragons. We need the Enemy to believe he knows what we are doing. The last Siege was during the Last Alliance, and as we seem to be the new Last Alliance, it would make sense we borrow their approach as well. The Enemy sees us through the eyes of the past as much as we do the same. What we need is them to relax just a little, thinking this is going to be the long Siege-game. And we need the night to fall. Before the night we cannot do much.”

 

“And what then?” Aragorn asked. “Even under the dark a storm would hardly become easier.” He turned to Imrahil though, signaling him to have the armies fan out for camp.

 

“I need Shakurán. We need to trap and kill a few Drakhár patrols before nightfall.” The plan had already taken shape in Boromir’s mind. “We will need a few more handlers for those beasts, but the Lord of the Dragon Forge had a few young captives he has yet to give up or kill. If Shakurán can win a few of them around – and with the Orders of the Empire he received it should work – they can serve as handlers. We take the armor of the Easterlings and fly right on top of that gate, overwhelm their guards and see it opened. At the same time you bring parts of the armies before the gate under the guise of the night, to storm inside once it opens. Two other leaders – might I suggest Dwalin and maybe the Elves? – lead their troops up on the hidden paths, to catch the gate in the flanks. That way they should be on top of them at the same time you storm inside. In the confusion we should swiftly gain a foothold, but I need the dwarves up on the gate swiftly, to use the catapults they are bound to have against the Orcs.”

 

Aragorn had listened silently and wondered how Boromir came up with his new strategies that fast. Maybe it was a talent, a skill that had gained him the place of a Captain of Gondor before he had been thirty, and that had carried him through this war. He could still sense Gandalf’s disapproval, but he knew that Gandalf did not trust Boromir, and he ignored it. “Then we better begin swiftly. I will inform Éomer, Éowyn and our men of the change of plans. Do you need me to send word to Lord Russandol asking for those prisoners released to you?”

 

“No, I will ask Kíli or Anvari to talk to him. It will shorten things a good deal,” Boromir replied. “And I am sure Dwalin will add some valuable ideas to the plan before long.”

 

TRB

 

“What makes you think I can turn these other captives that swiftly?” Shakurán stood, his arms crossed in front of his chest, opposite of Boromir, Dwalin and Kíli. “Do we even know if they are still alive?”

 

“Aye, they are,” Kíli replied. “And if they are all young Drakhár riders that lost their mounts in battle. They might have been the very wing you led when dropping caskets on us. They might simply follow you because you were their leader before.”

 

Dwalin tilted his head, his eyes appraising the Easterling. “Whatever your orders were, if they were not for suicide, those boys might have received a jab to follow your direction as well. The Empire does nothing in half-measures, I recall.”

 

A thought came to Boromir. “The Empire would not have shared your new orders with the Enemy, not when they plan on surviving Sauron… How many of the leaders over there will already know of your choice?”

 

Shakurán’s eyes sparkled. “Very few indeed, as my planned sacrifice was rather secret as well. It is something we can use, but…” There was a stubborn expression in his eyes. “If I talk my riders around to join you, I want them to join you, not to be killed afterwards.”

 

Boromir understood that Shakurán would make use of the orders he had been given to maybe turn some of those captives to their side. And it would work. “Each who will break his old bonds and swears to stand with us is welcome.” He did not know how this was going to sort out after the war, but he had little time to spent on dreams of a war over. They had a battle to fight.

 

As Shakurán headed off to begin his task, Boromir turned to Dwalin. “I would prefer having you on the hill path, leading your troops into the flank of the gate, but we have very few people speaking enough of the Black Tongue and the Eastern language for this raid as it is.”

 

Dwalin exchanged a glance with Kíli. Their conversation was nothing but a set of Iglishmêk gestures. “Bifur will take them through the pass,” he replied after a moment. “Kíli and I will come with you. If we want to trick them into opening the gate, we need luck.”

 

TRB

 

Faramir’s rangers had done a good job of luring in several patrols and killing them. Catching the Drakhár had been the more tricky part, but now, by nightfall, twelve Drakhár were perched on the rocks in the nearby ravine. They had spread out the Easterling armors amongst themselves, finding those who could wear them. Because many Gondorians were significantly taller than the average Easterling, it had not been an easy venture. Eventually Faramir had suggested that they added several of the girls from Éowyn’s troop to their group, because they were small and slender enough to fit into some of the armors. While he had found an armor to fit him, Boromir had not, but Shakurán had been resourceful about that. “Discard that ugly field armor you use. It screams Númenor to a blind man at night. Keep the heavy chainmail, wear a black cloak and one of their red tabards and at night you will look like an auxiliary from the Sea of Echoes.”

 

His suggestion had elicited a small laughter from Éowyn, who had already changed into one of the black scale mail armors and just assisted Brithonin in donning the heavy gauntlets. “I doubt the Captain ever was an auxiliary, Shakurán,” she said.

 

The joke made Boromir smile. Between them he felt at home, these were warriors one could risk such a daring raid. He glanced to Dwalin and Kíli, who had discarded their typical dwarven armor, only leaving chainmail, various leather pieces and a wild mix of weapons that made them almost look like mercenaries from Khand. It would do at night. At a little distance stood the other Drakhár handlers. Boromir had been right to assume that with the Empire’s orders to change sides on him, Shakurán had been able to turn them as well. Many of them were a bit pale, having foresworn their old allegiances only an hour ago. He had been present there. Many of them were young. Scyrane and Lorcaile were the youngest, aged barely seventeen, though Boromir remembered Scyrane having done some of the most daring troop deliveries with his Drakhár during the battle.

 

“The plan is simple,” he said to the entire group. “The Enemy does not know of Shakurán’s switch of allegiances just yet, or at least most of the troops won’t. So we will try to play them as long as we can, seeing the gate opened by order rather than force.” He gestured the Easterling to join him.

 

Shakurán stepped closer. “For those of you who do not speak the Black Tongue, there are only three lines you need to remember. Drâk naz gár – Have you not heard the orders? Shak tal gaz turag – By Morgul’s wrath, obey! And Ezrag tun nar gazdûn! – In the name of the Witch King! Keep using them whenever someone tries to speak to you. Be harsh, harmful and do not tolerate anyone coming too close. In case of Orcs, Varigans and other minor troops, kill whoever questions you, in case of Easterlings, keep to the last line and point them my way. They will think you are auxiliaries from Rhûn and do not speak the Black Tongue yet. It happens.”

 

He looked to Boromir, Faramir and Dwalin. “You speak the Black Tongue, and I do not need to tell you how their troops think. Behave like you are the Vanguard of the Returning Witch King and we should confuse them for a good while.”

 

There was nothing more to say. They split up to mount the Drakhár. Darkness had fallen over the field and in the shadow of the night, their own troops were advancing on the gate. Boromir, knowing his armor identified him as an auxiliary, stayed away from Shakurán’s Drakhár, choosing to approach Scyrane’s black Drakhár instead. The young man had mounted with the practiced ease of someone trained to jump on the back of the mighty lizards with little to no help. Before Boromir could wonder how he too would mount, the Drakhár lay down on the ground, spreading his wings, so Boromir could easily reach the back. He sat down behind Scyrane and watched as the others mounted much the same way. Shortly after all the Drakhár rose to the skies.

 

Shakurán could see the torches marking the landing platforms clearly in the night; the two mighty towers at the sides of Morannon were used for Drakhár riders to land. He guided his Drakhár down and the others followed in formation, as they should. With his left hand Shakurán pulled the black veil that used to cover the lower face into position. Usually the black cloth served against the perpetual dust and ashes in the Ered Lithui, but for now it simply made sure that only his eyes would be visible to others. It had an intimidating effect and would hopefully distract the casual viewer, making them see what they were used to see instead of noticing he had changed.

 

The Drakhár hit ground and Shakurán dismounted, seeing the usual helpers running his way. He gestured towards another Drakhár group on the platform. “Get those out of the way you dreamers,” he barked at the arriving soldiers. “We are just the vanguard. You were supposed to have room for us! Name of the Witch King, I have seen Orcs obey faster!”

 

His words caused confusion with them, as they well should, and stumbling excuses too. He did not wait to hear them out, striding off the platform. “Why is the gate not opening?” he barked at the watch commander who had come hastening as well. “I have not been marching three days through enemy lands to now be held off! The Witch King will want answers for this.”

 

In his back he heard Dwalin’s voice bark orders at the trolls who moved the gate, orders in an Orcish they’d understand. They began to pull on the mighty levers that steered the main mechanics.

 

He could see the panic his presence caused. While rumors of the Witch King’s demise had certainly reached them yet, Barad-Dûr had not declared it officially so, and thus they were bound to believe the rumors were wrong. The Watch commander was a lower-ranking officer, relegated to lead the night watch, hardly dared to contradict Shakurán, who had been the Witch King’s field commander after all, and did nothing to prevent the opening of the gate. He requested to wake the gate captain, but Shakurán cut him off. “My men are sneaking past the Enemy army! Once they are inside, I will see to waking your lazy watch captain myself.”

 

“Will you, brother?” A new voice cut into their conversation. On the stairs from the central tower of the gate stood another Easterling warrior, fully armed and blade in hand. “Your return is a surprising as it is… questionable.”

 

Idrakhán! Shakurán felt a cold hand grip his heart, squeezing it hard. If someone could see through this ruse it would be his cunning brother, who always played plans within plans. Only one thing would help here: counter-aggression. He strode up the stairs. “Is it, little traitor?” he snapped, loud enough for the surrounding troops to hear. “First running from the field you were to hold and now conspiring against the Witch King himself… I’d call that treason.”

 

He had almost reached Idrakhán when his brother raised the blade, advancing on him. “We’ll see who is a traitor in the end,” he snapped, his voice icy. “You finally showed what I always thought, that you were in league with the Enemy.”

 

Shakurán raised his sword and their blades clashed. The surrounding troops stood frozen, trying to decide whom to believe, but unable to discern which of the Nazgûl Lords might be in the right here. Dodging another attack, Shakurán changed style, going for a fast-paced, wild series of attacks that pushed Idrakhán backwards. He knew his brother, he knew his style and he attacked the weak points without mercy. Idrakhán retaliated in kind. Their fighting was only interrupted by sudden noise down in the main yards, where the gate stood open. The moment the mighty wing had been opened wide enough, the storm had begun, and from the flanks too rose the noise of battle.

 

Idrakhán stood in shock for a moment. “Traitor,” he said softly, realizing what was happening. “You truly… you truly betrayed us.”

 

“Tell that to the Lord of Night!” Shakurán did not wait, he did not waste the chance. Much as it hurt, he did not flinch away from what he had to do, ramming his blade deep into Idrakhán’s chest while his brother was still distracted. The body tumbled to the ground, armor crashing on the stones of the gate’s battlements. A horn of alarm rang out over the battlements. The fighting had just begun.

 

TRB

 

The troops on the wall reacted swiftly, but not swiftly enough. Boromir had already seen the one who would take command next – he stood out a bit – and Boromir never gave him the chance to bring order to the chaos on the wall. With Kíli by his side he charged at the red-headed man, who tried to assess the situation. He reacted fast and drew his sword, but he never stood a chance, being cut down with two swift strikes. Boromir came around and stabbed the next of them and another. Kíli and he were a good distance away from their comrades, but it did not matter.

 

He saw Kíli jump on the battlement and from there onto one of the chained troll’s shoulders, ramming his sword deep into the neck of the beast. Boromir grinned. Kíli had been faster than him, making sure the gate would not be closed any time soon. He joined him and along the chaotic battlements their chase went. Troops flooded against them, but Boromir hardly saw the difference. Orcs, Haradrim, Southrons, they all fell from his blade without bringing much resistance to bear. Holding to what Kíli had shown him, to the focus they almost shared, he saw them with an eerie clarity. Their enemies’ movements seemed slow and sluggish, their actions were utterly foreseeable, if not downright uninspired.

 

By the time they reached the middle of the gate wall, Boromir saw that Russandol’s troops had flooded the gate on one side and Bifur’s from the other. The gate itself was secured, but down in the yard Aragorn had a hard stand against the dug in troops and Orc legions. “Bifur, have your people secure the gate and use the catapults against the Orcs,” he said, before turning to the one-handed elf, who had silently assessed the situation.

 

“I will bring my people down their left flank.” Russandol’s voice was calm, unmoved by the battle. “If you can break their center, we can drive them out of this vale altogether.”

 

Boromir swiftly looked down and saw what the elf meant. It was a daring strategy, because smashing their center meant contending with the Orc legions, but it could work. “Leave their center to me,” he replied with a short nod, before the Elf took off with his troops.

 

The shortest way down into the fray was the long stairs of the tower. Boromir knew Kíli, Dwalin and a part of the dwarf troops with him. The others would secure the wall, led by Bifur. Faramir and Éowyn were with them too, to take lead of their archers again. Down in the main fortification behind the gate Boromir saw Aragorn had successfully secured the gauntlet fortifications and two bastions behind, but the wider field of Orc legions kept him bottled up and prevented him from spreading out and bringing their numbers to bear.

 

When Boromir reached the bastion where Aragorn was fighting, he was not surprised to find it almost cleared of foes. Aragorn might prefer to fight Ranger-style – in the shadows and with cunning – but when it came down to it, he was a good fighter and he had learned tactics amongst the elves. “That should have gotten their attention.” The Ranger shot another Orc coming close and ducked under two spears thrown in his direction. “Though I doubt we will be able to hold this fortress for long.”

 

Boromir kicked one of the remaining Haradrim off the wall and stabbed another Orc. “We are not going to defend it. We are going to attack them until they are running like hares.” He could almost laugh; the battle around him felt so alive, like it was feeding the darkness inside him, making him stronger.

 

Their gazes met and he could see surprise… and trust in Aragorn’s grey eyes. It was what maybe spurred Boromir’s determination even more than anything: a friend trusting him that he could pull this off. He raised his blade. “Veryan, advance on their right. That Orc legion with the bone banner is your target. Thoroniâr, you stay with our King and protect him with your life. Éomer, the Orcs down in the trenches are yours. Kíli, Dwalin, we take the center, fifth banner goes with us.” He had never felt it so keenly before, a plan coming together, the surge of strength, the rush that would carry them through this. He saw Shakurán was with them too, another strong blade to cut through their masses. The storm had begun.

 

TRB

 

High up on the walls Scyrane saw the Lord of the Morning lead troops against the Orc center. Legions were amassed all along the valley of Udûn, numbering enough to break any army. And while he was awed by the way the Lord of the Morning cut through them, he also saw the fresh Orc troops flanking him. He turned to the other handlers still at the platform. “Mount everyone, grab casks. The right flank needs support,” he said, trying to not show that his own heart was hammering like a drum. It had been easier to take the lead when Alaine had been shot during the battle for Minas Tirith; in the chaos no one had cared who had come up with the next steps, but here they all looked at him, and not in a good way.

 

“Who put you in charge?” Rakhir asked sharply. “We have no orders for the battle.”  He too sounded insecure. Apart from the task of flying the infiltration group in, they had not been given further orders.

 

Scyrane stepped up to him. Rakhir was nine years older than him, but shorter by a hand, allowing Scyrane to tower over him. “Did you think proving yourself to the Lord of the Morning would be easy, Rakhir?” he asked in a low, threatening voice. “Shakurán is the only one who has yet proven in blood where he stands.” He did not like to think about his father having slain his Uncle. Serving the Lord of the Morning would come at a steep price. “And each of us will have to prove his loyalty in blood before this is over. Do you have friends down there? Family? Not anymore. Now, mount your Drakhár, grab those casks and let’s scorch the Orcs down there! If I see you miss your drops too often, I’ll shoot you out of the skies myself.”

 

Rakhir took a step back. He was a good rider, but he had no backbone. Scyrane had noticed that before. None of the others made any arguments; they went to their Drakhár and mounted them. Scyrane jumped on his black Drakhár too. The casks he had seen stacked by the platform had been in preparation for the battle, by the other side, but now they were theirs to use. He shortened his grasp on the reins, guiding the Drakhár into the run.

 

One step, two steps, three… Like the drum pounding in his heart, the Drakhár ran, fluttering up the first time, fourth step, another flutter, fifth, the flutter became a sailing. Claws dug into the ropes of the casks and the black wings flapped swiftly as the Drakhár soared up, carrying the lethal cargo. Scyrane directed it towards the right flank and above the Orcs. He dove down as they dropped the casks on top of the Orc legions. Flames poured over the troops and screams rose to the skies along with the stench of scorched Orcs. He saw more Drakhár dive in; the others were following him. Redirecting the Drakhár into the air, he went for the next casks. Udûn would burn.

 

Boromir saw the shadows of the Drakhár soar in and moments later the flames erupted amongst the Orcs. He had hardly time to catch his breath or stop fighting, but he had noticed it was the black Drakhár leading them. That youngster had been trouble during the Siege of Minas Tirith, keeping his head after his captain was shot out of the air, never losing his wits and skill for one moment. He’d probably put him in charge of their rag-tag Drakhár troop, once this battle was done. Young as he was, Scyrane had potential.

 

While the Orcs on their right began to falter, the fires making their advance all the harder, Boromir saw Veryan and his troops pinned down between the Bone-banner and another Orc legion was pouring down on him. Veryan and his men fought bravely, dishing out death to many of their attackers, but ultimately they’d lose. Boromir sighed, he’d not have Veryan die on him. He would need him in battles to come. Thus he turned their own advance to that side, picking Veryan’s attackers off from the flank.

 

TRB

 

“Éomer, duck!” The shout came moments before two spear hissed over Éomer’s head, cleanly striking the throat of yet another troll that had come out of the earth-barns. As he came up again Éomer saw Elrohir, who had caught up with him, a third spear still in hand, ready to strike again. The trenches were crawling with Orcs, small trolls and other beasts. Cleaning them out was brutal work, but they were making progress at it.

 

“On ahead.” Éomer took the lead, climbing out of the trench and racing to the next, where some of theirs were already fighting, Elrohir followed him along with the Rohan troops. When they reached the trench a dead Orc came flying their direction, along with a second one, both tossed up by the same fighter. Raedan had not thrown them for fun, but for freeing Haleth, who had been trapped under them. Only a step away Anvari held off a troll, his sword cutting deep into the creature. The dwarf moved faster than the troll could handle; the heavy club usually hit empty ground.

 

Éomer used his elevated position above the trench to jump on the troll’s shoulder and stab his neck. The creature buckled under him, landing him hard inside the trench. He rolled over the dirty grounds and landed between several dead Orcs. A hand grabbed his arm and helped him up. “More are coming.” Anvari pointed towards the end of the trench, where some fires were burning from the caskets the Drakhár riders were dropping on the Enemy.

 

As he looked that way Éomer saw five huge trolls, larger than those they had seen before trample their way. Olog-hai, they were and they were not as dumb as their mountain-born brethren. “Push them against the fires.” He saw Elrohir, Anvari and Haleth follow him as they stormed against the trolls, forcing them to fight between the liquid fire scorching the grounds of Udûn.

 

TRB

 

Fion could not say if there was any strategy to the battle left, for he could not see it as he hacked his way through more Southron troops, both blades in his hands singing in the eternal echo of his strikes. He did not think about the plan, or strategy. If anyone could see through this chaos it would be Rú, and he did not question when Rú ordered them to spread along the entire left flank of the field. As the fighting went Fion allowed some of his skills to bleed into his fighting, not too much, just enough to give him and edge and to keep up with Rú.

 

Boromir down on the field might be downright scary, as he cleaved his path through the heart of the Orc formations, but none of them had ever seen Rú fight and to Fion there was nothing more fearsome and fascinating than the one-handed elf, who fought with the speed and grace of an angry wild cat and who never left a living Orc in his path. The entire elven force advanced that way. Canó led the outer wing, which had almost reached the gap of Udûn, blocking it off.

 

“Egandîr, take half the banner to the thorn there. The rest, push towards the valley!” Fion heard the order and followed when Rú charged inwards with the others, pushing the Orcs deeper into the valley of Udûn. And now, from above the plan began to become clear to him: they had trapped the Orcs between them. They pushed from the left mountainside, the right mountainside was aflame in liquid fire and Boromir was at the center. The Orcs were trapped, ripe for the slaughter. Their greater numbers were useless in the narrowing space where they could not unfold their strength. Udûn was becoming their Death Knell.

 

TRB

 

Black smoke still rose from the fires that would not cease to burn and that ate away at the dead bodies strewn across the grounds of Udûn, when Aragorn reached Boromir. The battle had raged for two days and to Aragorn’s own surprise they had taken Udûn. They stood inside the Black Lands itself, with an army that was still alive. The deathly plan Boromir and Russandol had executed had worked perfectly, leading to the greatest slaughter of Orcs and Shadow troops in this age.

 

He was not surprised to find Boromir at the very gap of Udûn, where the two Mountain chains formed a narrow passage leading out to the greater Morgai and the Isenmouthe foothills, both bordering on the plains of Gorgoroth. Boromir stood on one of the Orc bastions, studying the grounds ahead, which were alight with campfires and torchlights shining into another falling night. “The Enemy is regrouping,” he said, when Aragorn reached him.

 

Leaning against the black, dirty battlement, Aragorn allowed himself to let go of the front he presented towards the troops, the role of the King that they expected of him. He did not need it with Boromir. “Can you allow yourself ever to rest, my friend?” he asked him. “Your mind is already racing ahead towards the next battle, but you too are not immortal.”

 

The Captain of Gondor turned to him and some of his tense attitude faded a little. He still only wore the chainmail armor and had discarded the black cloak he had worn for disguise. With the blade on his back, a fresh scratch marring his throat and blood smearing his tawny hair, he looked wilder, stronger than ever. “You are right, Aragorn. The troops need at least a day’s rest before we press on. The Enemy is regrouping and withdrawing troops from the Plains of Gorgoroth, but there are still too many closer to Orodruin.”

 

“Won’t they try to retake Udûn and thus clear the way?” Aragorn asked, seeing that Boromir’s mind was restless. Maybe he had never had the chance to rest, to allow someone else to take care of the battles to come. He had always been the one who had to be strong.

 

“No, we need to make them turn another way, keep attention keenly focused on us,” Boromir said. “To make sure that the way to the Sammath Naur remains open for our friends.”

 

“You already have a plan?” Aragorn could see that Boromir hesitated speaking of it. “Hesitation is not like you at all.”

 

Boromir shook his head. He ran his hand through his hair to push it away from his face, the very gesture betraying a fatigue that was not of his body, but went deeper. “It is this place, Aragorn. It is calling to me, whispering, luring me… The focus Kíli taught me helps, as does his presence; he keeps remembering me who I am. But the one plan I can see through this, is one you will not like.”

 

“I cannot judge that, if I do not know what it is.” Aragorn was grateful for the waterskins one of the dwarves – was this truly Yurar fighting with them here? – had brought them. He did not question why Boromir preferred to fight alongside the dwarves; Kíli and Dwalin might be the only ones to be able to deal with him when he was in the full fighting rush. Aragorn had seen how Boromir had cleaved his path through more enemies than anyone might care to count, and he had come out on top. Even his own Gondorian troops began to shy away from him, though discipline suppressed any open display of fear, yet.

 

“We ignore Orodruin and Morgai entirely, force our way through the crossroads of Ashlands, three miles East of here and march on Barad-Dûr itself,” Boromir replied, pointing out the relevant positions as they could see it at night. “We force the Enemy to focus entirely on us, bring the war to his very doorstep, and no one in this land will pay attention to anything but us.”

 

March on Barad-Dûr itself. It sounded like madness, like the words of an insane or a dreamer, but the same was true about the plan of storming Morannon, and now they stood here, deep in the Enemy lands. Aragorn wondered if Elendil had felt like that about Gil-Galad and his fighters or if there had been anyone before who had a similar warrior like Boromir by his side. “Can we do it?” he asked him. “Do you see a plan to truly make it happen?”

 

Boromir must have seen Aragorn’s exhaustion, for he chose to sit down on the battlements as he began to explain the plan he had to him. Kíli joined them after a while, and together they began to plan their advance deeper into the Enemy lands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. I am amazed how you always put up with my weird sentences. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs*


	39. The Shadow of the Ashlands

The skies had taken on the colour of old bones that neither wind nor rain were able to change. If there was wind at all, it was a dry, thin wind full of a stifling heat that exhausted every living and breathing body. The Ered Lithui rose darkly before a sickly yellow sky. The once green sides of the Mountains were now a pattern of grey, brown and ashen spots, earning the mountains their name. The plants died there, contrary to those on the Ashland plains which had slowly turned into dry, thorny, wretched creatures, creeping over the harsh ground and broken stones.

Boromir stood with his back to the Ashlander Crossroads, eyes on the dusty plains that stretched on and on towards Barad-Dûr. The fighting at the Crossroads had been short-lived; they had taken control of the crossroads, the fortress that covered it and the outlying Orc strongholds in less than three days, but he still found it hard to tame his own unrest. Across the plains of dust and ash he could see the Tower loom, Barad-Dûr with the burning eye searing into the night. Sometimes he could almost feel the touch, like a scalding presence when the eye flared brightly. It came close to touching upon a dark, pained part deep inside Boromir’s soul, a part he had buried and vowed to forget, and the Eye had yet to reach it but each time he felt it, it came closer.

 

Whenever Boromir felt the touch so keenly, he focused on Kíli. Inside the bond Kíli’s representation was a flame, fitting for an arcane smith, fitting for dwarrow, and the bright, warm presence always steadied him again, driving away the darkness slowly gnawing away at him. “Captain?” He had heard the steps approach, and he knew it to be Veryan, even without turning around.

 

“How quickly are the troops catching up, Veryan?” Boromir asked, not turning around. He avoided looking at Veryan if he could, for he knew he would find nervousness is his friend’s eyes, a glint of fear. It was as if the Swan Knight felt like he was caged with a wild beast, unsure when he’d be attacked. He tried to hide it, but it was there and it hurt to see it.

 

“Slowly, but we should have them here by nightfall and hopefully they’ll be ready to march by next morning,” Veryan reported, his voice almost forcibly calm. “The march through this land is hard; it drains the men quickly.”

 

“Only tomorrow?” Boromir wondered why he did not feel the drain the men suffered from. Maybe it was because something inside himself had changed irrevocably.

 

“The men are pushed to their limit, Captain.” There was a sharper edge to Veryan’s voice now, but the Swan Knight did not back off, no matter how much he fear he held for Boromir now. “Not everyone has the sturdy endurance of our allies and even they tire more quickly in this land. If you want a strong fighting force to… to attack the Tower, you give them the rest they need.”

 

Boromir turned around and found Veryan avoiding his gaze. There had been a time when Veryan would have spoken up without being shy about it, but now there was a rift between them, and not because Boromir had stopped listening. Veryan might have a point, he rationalized, even the dwarves were wearing down more swiftly, and Kíli… He felt more tired in the bond, though none of the dwarves would say a word; they were no whiners. “You are right, Veryan,” he said, trying to soften his words somewhat. “We will need to be stronger once we press on. Make sure the men get the rest they need and make sure you see a healer too. I doubt you should be up and about already.”

 

Veryan stepped back from him, but if it was reflex or even a shying away from the friendlier words, Boromir could not tell. He was relieved when Veryan left swiftly.

 

Again his eyes went to the Tower looming ahead. If there was a point in this land where the shadow culminated, it was Barad-Dûr itself, or was it that the Tower spread the shadow swallowing up this land? Boromir wondered what this land might have been like when the Tower had been broken, before Sauron returned and reclaimed it.

 

A gust of wind breathed past him, blowing up dust between the thorny plants of the plains. Within the swirling ash Boromir saw a figure for a moment: a man, tall and in black armor, standing between the bushes of the plains, looking at him. _I knew you would come for me._

 

Startled Boromir blinked, pulling himself from the eerie vision. There was nothing there but the dust and the ashes whirling with the dry winds. A shiver ran down his spine, raising the hair on his forearms. What had he just seen? What whisper had reached for him?

 

TRB

 

“This is no place for horses.” Éomer had raised one arm to shield his eyes from the swirling ash in the air. The wind had picked up during the last hour, driving all the dirt of this land against them. His other hand was firmly closed around the reins of his horse Firefoot as he followed Elrohir uphill, towards a plateau full of more dust.

 

“We found some waterholes up there,” Elrohir replied. He too was leading a horse that way. It was not his own, but one belonging to one of their lightly wounded fighters. “They are not tainted and fairly good. The water must come from somewhere in the mountains and from very deep, for it is rather cold.”

 

They reached the plateau, and Éomer was surprised to notice the plants: a dry, creeping grass growing on the ashen grounds. It was not much, but better than nothing for their steeds. “The supply caravan will bring additional food for the horses.” Elrohir handed the reins of his mount to the man it belonged to.

 

“Good, we will need it, especially if Boromir wants us mounted in battle.” Éomer saw the camp was well ordered already and  he recognized his sister’s hand in it. He thought of Theodred, whom they had left in Minas Tirith to recover from his injuries, and he wondered what he would make of this place. As he looked around he saw the chain of mountains to their left and the plains stretching onward, ash and dust and behind… behind the Tower, rising like the Shadow itself above this broken land. A cold fear grasped him, like a shadow falling over his heart, taking all the will to exist with it.

 

Shaking his head, Éomer tried to will the fear away, to think straight. “Éomer, what is it?” Elrohir had walked back to him, his eyes worried.

 

Éomer straightened up and forced himself to look at the Tower again and to not succumb to fear. “’Tis nothing, Elrohir,” he replied. “This place… it is like one of those ancient songs, about Fin who went to the Dark Tower, or about the Battle of Flame. It is like a dark legend come alive, and I never thought I would walk into one of those in the waking world.”

 

“You know that both ballads did really happen. They are not just stories.” Elrohir was often surprised what stories of the Elder Days lived on amongst the Rohirrim in the form of songs and ballads. More often than not they were believed to be legends or stories rather than true history, but they were told on and on from one generation to the next. “If they were just legends, we might not stand here today to fight the Shadow anew.”

 

“Truly?” Éomer turned away from the sight of the Tower. “They must be Elven stories then. You will have to tell them to me, in a better time when there is time for such things.” They walked on into the camp. Most of the riders were already there, resting. The horses were fed and drank at the waterholes strewn over the plain. While many of the men were watchful, the place appeared safer than any camp inside the Enemy lands had the right to be.

 

Beside a small fire Éomer spotted Faramir sitting and Éowyn was with him. Their conversation was too low to be overheard, but the picture made him frown. “Why is he with us again?” he asked, casting a sharp glance at them. He had noticed Faramir around his sister a lot during the campaign, and not just because their archers had to work together a lot.

 

To his surprise he felt Elrohir’s hand on his shoulder. “Let him, if you can tolerate it, Éomer. He carries a burden I would wish on no man.” There was a great compassion in his companion’s eyes and Éomer found he was willing to listen, in spite of his sister being involved.

 

“I do not see what burden you mean, Elrohir. He may be even more in the shadow of his brother than ever before, but any man would be proud if it was his brother who rose to such strength, to be the blade that cleaves the shadow. There is no reason to bemoan such a fate.” Boromir was becoming short-tempered of late, but not unreasonably so, and he led this campaign with a brilliance that Éomer admired. Aragorn was a lucky king to have such a man fight for him. The world was lucky that Boromir stood with the light in this hour. Looking up at the slightly taller… no, he was not an elf any longer, _man_ , he noticed that Elrohir’s expression had not changed.

 

“He is losing him, Éomer, and he already knows it. His gift of foresight is telling him that the Lord of the Morning will not return from the last battle. And he knows that Boromir knows it too and does nothing to avoid such a fate.” When Elrohir spoke, the gentle compassion of a healer replaced the strong edge of the warrior in his voice. It was a dichotomy Éomer had yet to understand. “He cannot even reach his brother anymore, or that’s what he feels like, and he seeks hold to remain strong. Your sister is a strong warrior in her own right and she will understand the burden he carries.”

 

Before Éomer could answer, a gust of wind brushed through the camp, whirling up more ashes than before, but there was a cold going with the wind that was different from the rising storm before. It vanished as fast as it had come. Startled Éomer looked around. “Something is not right, Elrohir. Something is lurking here, creeping up on us.”

 

“I agree, and we better find it before it can do any harm.” Elrohir followed Éomer, who strode back down towards the main camp, where they had felt the cold move to.

 

TRB

 

Kíli sat by the low fire. The thorns of this land did burn when properly ignited, but the flames rising from the burning material were not very warm, nor very bright. Like the land itself it was greedy, not giving easily of anything. In other times the problem might have fascinated him, made him wonder what other properties the materials from this land might have, but not today. He was glad that he had a little time alone, to think, to organize his thoughts. There had been so little time to think lately. Ever since he had shown Boromir the focus and had seen the golden star, dreams had been haunting Kíli’s mind, broken fragments of something he had yet to define. It was like he was dreaming of a life he knew nothing of.

 

Those dreams were easily distracting him from the things that lay ahead, when they better should not. If he closed his eyes, he could tell with rapid clarity that Boromir was somewhere down by the crossroads, restlessly watching the rising storm, and Kíli would soon join him down there, be it only to make sure Boromir found whatever rest he could still find. Kíli knew that worrying for Boromir was wasted time and strength; the Captain of Gondor (again, I used a synonym) had embraced the change wrought upon him and was shaping himself into the weapon that would break the Shadow. It was so like him; he always protected others, no matter what it did to himself.

 

Kíli had first seen that on the long quest against the dragon, and he saw it even stronger now. If it was to protect those he cared for, Boromir would bear anything, no matter how hard, how soul-crushing. And this time, Kíli had sworn to himself, he would not leave Boromir to die alone. He would not allow Boromir to be alone in this, no matter where this road would lead. Maybe Fíli had been right: they both had been living on borrowed time, ever since the Battle of the Five Armies, but maybe there was a sense to that. Maybe it would allow Kíli to give something back, to help Boromir through this.

 

Heavy steps approached. Dwalin and Anvari were there, and both sat down with him by the small fire. Dwalin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The face you make… Why do I already know that I won’t like what you are planning?”

 

“Am I that obvious?” Kíli knew that Dwalin knew him too well, could read much into most of his poses. “And… I hardly know how to begin to explain.”

 

“You have that same face Thorin had when he was set on something mightily dangerous and when he was being stubborn about it. Come to think of it, Thrór had the very same expression.” Dwalin’s deep voice was almost a grumble when he spoke. “Explaining is always hard. Just say whatever it is.”

 

“He is leaving us,” Anvari said softly. “He is going with Boromir into battle tomorrow and he thinks they won’t come back.” The young dwarf reached for Kíli’s arm and his hand closed around the bracer. “Kíli, please listen. Do you recall my first few years on Himring? There were times when I thought it would be better if I was dead instead of the abomination I had become. Fion said he didn’t feel much different at times, and in a way he does to this day. And every time I came down with such thoughts, you were there to remind me I was wrong.”

 

Kíli reached out and drew Anvari into a short, one-armed hug. It had been those years when they had grown truly close, when Anvari had become as close as a son, or younger brother, to him. “Are you saying I am giving up too early?” he asked softly.

 

“I am saying that you must not give up on Boromir.” Anvari’s blue eyes shone with a bright fire. “He may think that he is a weapon and that he has to die once his task is done, because one such as he is now should not live and all this nonsense, but you must not allow yourself to believe the same. You are his anchor in the light, in life and only if you fight for him, for both of you, you can make it.”

 

Dark eyes met cold blue and there was a small smile on Kíli’s face. “You are right, Anvari. I will not give up on Boromir and I will fight to bring us both through this… but still….”

 

“Still it means you might die. You might not come back.” Anvari grasped both of Kíli’s hands. “If Mahal has set the hour of a dwarrow to die, he will lead the dwarrow to the right place. Leave death in his hands. If he wills it, none of us might walk back from this battle. Until then we fight, we fight with all that we have, and then some.”

 

Dwalin watched the two and was vividly reminded of two brothers on the eve of the battle of Azanulbizar. In his heart he hoped that for neither of them the hour was close. If fate truly demanded a price in dwarrowblood, it could take him instead.

 

Suddenly Kíli jumped up as the wind began to whirl through the camp like a storm. “Boromir! Something is attacking.” He took his sword and without losing a moment he raced downhill towards the main crossroads.

 

TRB

 

Boromir had seen them coming. He had recognized the wind that was not wind, but Drakhár wings and the shadow of the Fell Beast falling on the road. It was only an echo, but their approach was hard to be missed. Khamûl, he guessed. This was another classical Easterling tactic: surprise the Enemy on the march and cut off the head. It was called Culling the Wyrm, if he recalled that right. Again he felt the swirl of wind brush against him. It was strange, but even being a Ringwraith had not changed Khamûl’s persona; he still thought and acted like an Easterling. Was this the difference, was this the reason why the Nazgûl had even warred amongst themselves? Could it be that their enslavement to the Shadow was one of service, but not one of losing their own person, their own thought? He had never wondered about it before. Maybe they had simply been too weak, too drawn to whatever power the rings gave them.

 

He saw them land: five Drakhár and one Fell Beast. The riders dismounted from the Drakhár moved fluidly, with an almost impossible grace and he could sense the Shadow upon them. Whatever dark magics had been worked on them, they had been greatly strengthened for their task. In the middle the Nazgûl dismounted too.

 

Boromir drew his sword and advanced on them. He was beyond the guard line of the camp, and he would not involve the camp in a fight that was only aimed at him. They had come for him and they had found him. Steps from behind startled him. From the one side he saw Éomer and Elrohir close in, from the other it were Kíli, Anvari and Dwalin. Their presence sent a surge through him; knowing his friends had come for him, no matter what attackers were closing in.

 

“They came for me,” Boromir said, when Kíli took the place beside him, sword in hand. “It is me they want.”

 

“Well, they can’t have you,” Kíli grumbled, his voice becoming deeper with anger. “And it is time they learned that.”

 

The attack began with the warriors. Boromir had seen Easterlings like this before; steeped in shadow, strengthened through blessings and magics no man could name. There were seven of them rushing against him. He did not try to evade them, but he attempted to bind their attentions best that he could, but only three of them focused on him. Their blades clashed against his armor, but he hardly felt them. He ducked under one attack and sent another stumbling back with a surprising kick, while he sank his sword in the first one’s chest.

 

He yanked the blade free and parried the attack of a second, while the third had stumbled into Anvari’s path and was cut down by the dwarf, the very same moment Elrohir killed Éomer’s opponent, while the Rohirrim slew Elrohir’s attacker. Boromir stabbed the second one attacking him and turned towards the one still fighting with Kíli, only to see him fall, while the last Easterling lost his life under Stormcaller’s wrath.

 

A darkness fell over their fighting place, like a cloud had blotted out what little sun ever shone on these wretched lands. The cold became deeper, almost so icy it froze their blood. And then he came: Khamûl. Had the presence of the Witch King been one of fear and horror, his was one of power, of control. Towering above them, surrounded by shadow swirling like a cloak, his blade swiped through the air, brushing Elrohir and Anvari aside effortlessly.

 

Boromir saw Kíli just dodge the next attack, but Dwalin too was swept through the air, tossed somewhere beyond their sight. Angrily he grabbed his sword with both hands. He had seen the Nazgûl attack with impunity so often and they never had to fear their own demise, shy alone of the fire which only could temporarily destroy their forms and he was so tired of their eternal games of fear and nightmares. He charging ahead and blocked the next attack of the Nazgûl blade. His own sword rang brightly as it met the Morgul blade. He felt the cold surge through him, but he also felt something else. There was a knot of shadow, like the very anchor holding Khamûl together, the very reason he stood here. Never before had Boromir sensed something beyond the fear in a Nazgûl’s presence.

 

Again their blades clashed, and this time he pushed Khamûl back. Boromir allowing his focus to manifest and drew on that power inside him, opening towards that spark of darkness. The rush was stronger than ever before as his sword cut through the form of the Nazgûl and the creature shrieked in pain. He advanced anew, not relenting, to not give the Wraith the time to recover and stabbed him again. A third cut through the air went against the arm.

 

And the he saw it: a spark of cold shining brightly in the darkness, along with the glow of a deeply red gemstone. A ring whirled through the air and fell down, as the figure of Nazgûl vanished with an unearthly scream. The ring fell into the dust, a gleaming spark between the ashes.

 

The darkness lifted and Boromir became aware that they were no longer alone; troops from the camp had arrived. He could not tell when or how, but now they were here, as were Aragorn and Gandalf. “How… how did you do this?” Gandalf’s voice was stern. The white wizard had raised his staff, almost pointing towards the ring in the dust.

 

“Praise the dwarrow that forged this blade,” Boromir replied, sheathing Shadowbreaker. “There are few blades in the world that will withstand a Ringwraith.”

 

Murmurs rose amongst the men standing around, and Boromir could almost sense the fear radiating off them like heat from a stone. They feared him and they were no longer sure he was one of them.

 

Aragorn reacted swiftly to it, though. “Imrahil, retract the troops. The fighting is over,” he ordered. His authority calmed the situation again.

 

“This still needs an answer,” Gandalf said when the main troops had retreated to the camp. The wizard kept a distance from the Nazgûl ring lying in the dust, but his eyes were on it like it was a rattlesnake. “This should not be possible, not through any blade forged by mortal hands.”

 

“Maybe you underestimated Thorin,” Boromir suggested. “He was a great arcane smith…”

 

“No,” Gandalf said. “Do not let your own friendship with Thorin and his family blind you, Boromir. This should be all but impossible, for the Nazgûl are bound to their Rings, which are bound to the Ring and thus bound to the Dark Lord himself. Only he should be able to destroy them to reclaim a ring.”

 

Kíli, who had squatted down a step away from the golden band, looked up. “Be that as it may, we have an artifact lying by the roadside, Gandalf, and one I’d be loath the leave lying around. Who knows what happens if the next Orc takes it?”

 

Boromir walked up to him. “Don’t touch it, Kíli. You know what the first of the seven did to your family. I won’t have you take such risk again.” He realized his words had come out rather forcefully, when Kíli tilted his head to look up, though there was no anger in his eyes. It took no more than a glance to help Boromir find his balance again. “Maybe… maybe we should leave it here, even on the risk that an Orc will take it.”

 

Gandalf studied them both, his eyes going forth and back between them. “It is the only way. Anyone who takes this thing is at risk of falling under the will of the Dark Lord,” he said, his voice gravelly. Boromir had his doubts about that assessment, but he kept the voice inside him at bay, the voice that whispered he should take the artifact, that he could control it when he had claimed it, that there was more to these rings than men had ever known. He pushed it away, not allowing it to rise to the surface. He could not afford to break, not before this was over.

 

TRB

 

Night had already fallen over the Ashlands, a darkness that allowed for no stars in the sky and for no moon to lighten the burden of the night. Not that Boromir noticed much; he had never been someone to ask the stars for advice or to wax poetry about the bright moon. The night did nothing to quench his restlessness. He wanted to get moving, but he also knew he had to wait. Nights became harder and harder to bear, with himself unable to sleep, while the others rested. He had made guarding Kíli a habit. It helped him to find a measure of calm, a kind of peace that seemed denied to him otherwise. But he still had a few details of the plan to straighten out, before the new day came.

 

He walked uphill and found the place where the Drakhár were perched, the only animals almost unfazed by this land. There were a few more than before, along with some additions to the riders, camped by two small fires. They too moved about with the familiarity of men long accustomed to the ashen lands.

 

Boromir found Shakurán at the edge of the camp, sitting on a rock alone. He halted his steps, wondering if he should leave him alone for a while. What had happened during the battle at Morannon was not something that was easily borne, and knowing the Easterling, he was sure Shakurán would not wish to talk of it.

 

“Lurking in the shadows does not suit you, Son of the Sea Kings.” Shakurán had risen from the rock and walked up to him. “I heard you made short work of Khamûl today.”

 

If there was something soothing about the Easterling, then it was that nothing could scare him and that he would not flinch or shiver in the face of even the greatest danger. “I see you hear the camp talk, even up here,” Boromir observed. “And you have expanded the numbers of our Drakhár riders again. Captives from Morannon?”

 

“A few.” Shakurán shrugged “Some others were comrades of Scyrane and his riders and were won over by them. It should allow us to deliver some troops right on Barad-Dûr’s bridges once the battle starts.”

 

“Have you ever been there, to the Tower I mean?” Boromir asked, as they walked along the outer line of the camp. “I know what it looks like outside: the defenses, the bridges… But inside, what is there?”

 

“I have been there, once or twice for reports,” Shakurán said, his shoulders tensing. “In most aspects it is just that: a huge Tower filled with a presence. It is nothing like Orthanc, though. The Tower is huge: halls, stairs and passages without an end, and sometimes it feels like there is no way out. Most of it is empty, save for the guardrooms, the servants’ quarters and the great audience hall of course. But why? Are you planning to storm the Tower itself?”

 

“We may have to,” Boromir said. He wished he could simply tell Shakurán why. “And I need your knowledge of the grounds for that. Scyrane can take lead of the Drakhár riders again; he did well in the last battle and he was a supreme trouble in Minas Tirith.”

 

“There are some older riders with the group,” Shakurán pointed out. “Some of them have more years of fighting experience too.”

 

“And they followed him well during the fighting in Udûn and after. Is there any issue between you and Scyrane?” Boromir inquired. He would need the riders at their full strength to make the battle work and therefore he needed to understand their tensions.

 

“Except that he is my son, none,” Shakurán replied dryly. “And I’d deem him ten years too young to lead such a group.”

 

It was something that made Boromir laugh, a true genuine laughter rising inside him. “He did remind me of you at your most annoying and brilliant times back in Osgiliath,” he said, amused to see that his laughter had caused a frown with Shakurán. After a moment he added: “Tell him that when he begins to see a red light aglow in the west, he is to grab whatever troops his Drakhár can carry and get them away from the plains.” It was cryptic and Boromir knew it, but still he hoped they’d react rightly when the time came. It could save their lives.

 

TRB

 

The night slowly moved on, as Boromir returned towards the dwarven camp. He evaded the main camp, simply to not meet the stares and whispers that would greet him there. As he walked along the edge of their camp, he was surprised to see Aragorn, standing alone, looking towards the mighty silhouette of Orodruin glowing into the night. “They are somewhere out there,” Boromir said, guessing what Aragorn was thinking of. “They just need more time.”

 

“Do they?” Aragorn turned around and their eyes met. “I try to keep believing it, but with every day we fight in the accursed land, I wonder more. Are they alive and still on their way? Are they dead? What… what if HE already has the Ring back, and now is just waiting for us to walk into his trap?”

 

“Even with the Ring he was not invincible,” Boromir replied, holding Aragorn’s gaze. “That sword you wield cut the ring off his hand once and it can do it again, if necessary. With you wielding Andúril I have no fear of confronting HIM, even if he had the Ring back.”

 

“I do not know if I have the strength to stand up to him. I can hardly imagine what it would take.” Aragorn looked at him. Sometimes he seemed surprised at their conversations, and Boromir wondered why.

 

“You do. You are stronger than Isildur was, maybe because you question yourself so much.” Boromir tried to sound reassuring, suppressing what harsh edge was in his voice. “And you’d do it for all those you wish to protect: for your people, your friends… and that Elven Lady of yours. You do not do this for glory, or for power. That’s what makes you stronger.”

 

Aragorn smiled and looked down, averting his gaze. “Maybe I fear the day tomorrow, and what awaits at that Tower, because I see you are not trying to avoid the destruction. Boromir, you do not have to be the weapon to break the Shadow… You could try and free yourself of that darkness inside you.”

 

His words were no accusation and Boromir did not understand them as such. They were the words of a friend, of a healer, trying to help him even now. And this was why he had to go through with this: so there would be another day, and a chance for Aragorn to heal Gondor. “There is no way back for me, Aragorn,” Boromir said. “And it would be best if the Lord of the Morning never returned from his last battle. A legend he was, and a legend he must remain.” Only thus the Lord of the Morning would not become an issue for the returned King of Gondor and Boromir was all right with that. If he could carve that path that would lead to Aragorn’s coronation, he’d have done well and have fulfilled the obligation of his family.

 

“Your death would never be necessary,” Aragorn spoke up, his grey eyes shining fiercely. “I know some of the men are irrational about you right now, even Gandalf is… but once this was over, we could work on that.”

 

Boromir shook his head. “It is one issue you should not have to deal with, Aragorn, no matter what happens, no matter what awaits beyond the dawn of this new day. I could not return to Gondor and I believe it is best that way.” He reached for Aragorn’s shoulder, slightly squeezing it. “There is no need to be sad. If we win this, I know Gondor will be in good hands.”

 

TRB

 

Midnight was passing away and the long hours crept on towards the morning. Boromir sat leaning against the rock, close to a low fire. Kíli was asleep, curled up on the other side of the flames, hand closed around the hilt of his sword even in sleep. Here now Boromir did not feel the restlessness anymore; he could actually just sit here and wait for the hours to trickle by. Sitting like this he could deal with his own inability to rest, while the rest of the camp had fallen asleep. Maybe it was because it gave him a task, a friend to watch over.

 

While he sat there studying Kíli’s sleeping face in the dying firelight, the feeling of an intense familiarity washed over him. It was as if he had done this before, somewhere beyond the edges of his own recollection, and this time Boromir did not strafe it off. He allowed it to rise in his mind, embraced the feeling and with it pictures crept. It were only small things at first, and then others followed, greater… They were jumbled impressions and pieces of the puzzle he could not quite place. But they helped him to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Dunla did a miracle today, working through this slightly heat-damaged chapter and helping me to straight out all my contradictions. So many many thanks and *hugs* for her. 
> 
> Can someone please send a fat rainstorm my way? The heat is really a killer here.


	40. Into the Eye of the Shadow

Frodo scrambled to his feet once the Orcs were out of sight and helped Sam up next. They both had hidden behind a huge boulder when the Orcs had charged past them. More and more Orcs had been heading East throughout the night, leaving the plains of Gorgoroth empty. Even here, at the very foot of Orodruin, only remnants of the gigantic armies remained. He saw Aelin appear from a similar hideout further up. The elf’s eyes followed the Orcs as they ran off.

 

Sam craned his neck and peered up the steep slopes towering over them. “This is it now, Master Frodo, the fiery mountain. It looks as gloomy as it should, if you get my meaning. We should get this over with swiftly; I don’t want to see all these Orcs return here.”

 

“The way up is long.” Aelin led them along the uneven grounds of black stone until they reached a narrow incision in the mountainside, like a path that long ago hot lava had eaten into the ground. “This will lead us all the way up to Sammath Naur.” The Elf looked over his shoulder, back to the plains they had crossed.

 

“Something is wrong,” Frodo observed as he tiredly began to walk up the path. The heat radiating from the ground itself stung his feet with any step, but he kept walking. Bilbo would not have turned around just because things were getting harder and harder, and the thought of his Uncle kept him up as they marched.

 

“We are being watched,” Aelin said softly. “Someone is following us. When we reach the turn up ahead, you two go on. I will remain behind and take care of our hunters.”

 

“Take care, Aelin,” Sam said in a hush as he hastened on to catch up to Frodo, keeping a watchful eye on the bleak mountainside ahead of them. He could see nothing but black stone, ash and dust. A smell like heated metal hung in the air, stinging in his lungs with every breath he took. The way up to the peak seemed longer than it had even looked from the foot of the mountain.

 

TRB

 

The pits of Barad-Dûr were ablaze with dark flame, the searing fires scorching brightly into the dark day. The wind was hot and dry, carrying ash and dust, feeding the flames even more. Of the three bridges leading to the tower itself, two lay in shadow and one was brightly illuminated by the fires. Boromir did not waste any time on pondering the symbolism, for the Orc center was amassed before the main bridge, a huge black fold marring even these plains. The flanks were held by Southrons, Haradrim, and some Easterlings, though he guessed that their main force was still on the bridges and holding the Tower itself.

 

He could easily tell who had command of the army. The remaining Nazgûl had taken to the field; he could spot at least three of them with the armies. The call of a horn sounded from the left and the deep sound of a horn of the North answered. Only moments later it was answered from the right by a much lighter sounding horn. Boromir raised his blade. The signal was given and on both flanks their riders began their charge into the battle, while they too began the storm against the Orc center.

 

Each step echoed inside him like an angry drum as they raced into attack. The shield wall before them closed, but Orc spears lurked in between the narrow gaps. Three steps, the Orcs closed ranks further, two steps, a storm of arrows hissed past them, killing some of their comrades, while others missed their target. He did not stop to see who fell. One step, he pushed himself off the ground, the leap just high enough to evade the Orc spears before the full impact with the shield came. The sound was drowned out in the thunder of both armies meeting. He felt the impact, the Orc stumbled surprised and Boromir sunk his blade into the Orc exposed left of him.

 

He slipped off the shield as the Orc pushed and he landed on the ground hard. Boromir yanked his sword free and brought it down on the shield, pushing the Orc back. Beside him Kíli slew the Orc to the right, advancing one step forward. Boromir grinned as he killed the Orc with the shield, stabbing the one behind next. The shield wall was faltering! He pressed on, his sword a whirling arc of death, taking another life with each attack. The Orcs fell like leaves from a tree in autumn. Their corpses littered the ground, but still their center was holding; the formation had yet to shatter. “Kíli, left flank! We have to splinter them!”

 

The fighting went on. The Orcs were tough and their formation only slowly fraying. Boromir had long lost count of the hours they had been fighting. The Orcs numbered beyond counting, and they kept coming. At least the riders had effectively tied down the Haradrim and Southron forces on the wings, though chaos reigned supreme there as well.

 

He turned around to find the next Orc troop regrouping. The Captain of Gondor felt an icy swirl of air brush past him as a shadow fell onto the field; the Nazgûl appeared, his darkness like an echo of this very land. Boromir raised his blade almost in greeting. Gone were the days when the sheer horror had crept up to him on when he saw one of these Wraiths. He was beyond fear now and they had no hold over him any longer. He saw the blue flame suddenly rise from the grim stones left and right, and while he no longer needed the fire to deal with one of the Ringwraiths, it told him that Kíli was with him, giving him his strength.

 

He rushed forward and his sword clashed with the Blade the Nazgûl wielded, the cold fire hardly echoing into him anymore. As he wielded Shadowbreaker with both hands he did the same he had done when he had fought Khamûl: he cut through the very core of the Ringwraith first, before he slashed off the arm with the blade. Inwardly he thanked Thorin for forging the sword, a blade that would withstand such punishment almost unharmed. The Ringwraith screamed as he fell apart and Boromir saw a glint of gold swirl in the air. The scream was echoed by thousands of Orcs who panicked… and finally broke.

 

TRB

 

The scream was bloodcurdling. Aragorn thought it would freeze his blood and soul into one compact block of ice. But the echoing scream of the Orcs brought him back to reality. He was standing on a thorny hill and corpses piled around him and his men. The battle had already been lasting for hours and now – it was happening, just like Boromir had said – their center broke, leaving the bridges exposed. The plan was working.

 

He turned his head, but Faramir and Thoroniâr were both still with him. “Faramir, have the archers fall back towards the thorn ridge, join with the Rohirrim. Thoroniâr, all others close ranks with Éomer.” The Riders of Rohan had smashed the Southrons and were now holding the guard hill close to the left bridge.

 

His orders were obeyed, though he could see the confusion in both men as they followed the orders. The chaos amongst the Orcs gave them the chance to reach Éomer on the guard hill. It was nothing more than another thorny hill like many in this land, with a tower and a bastion to cover the bridges. Both had fallen during the early stages of the battle. Raedan and Heóstar reached him from the flank of the field where they had been fighting. “Ivár is making for the other guard hill. The Elves took it fast,” Heóstar reported. “Though the enemy is likely going to regroup quickly, or else I don’t know the Night Riders.”

 

Aragorn silently agreed with him. Down by the bridges he could see the Drakhár dive down to deliver the first troops onto the bridgeheads. “Aragorn!” Éomer stood at the guard hill. The Rohirrim had already taken possession of the Bastion to use it in their defense. “Are we not going to support Boromir down there?” He pointed towards the troops advancing on the bridge.

 

He was a brave man and he would not agree that no sane man should try to storm Barad-Dûr, and Aragorn knew that. “We are forcing their Captain to split their defense, Éomer. If he focuses his troops on Boromir and the bridges, he has us at his back and we can pick off the Enemy at all flanks, and if he focuses the troops on us and Russandol’s people on the guard hills…”

 

“Boromir has more time to take the Tower.” Éomer’s face shone in a wild grin as understanding dawned. “Elrohir was right about this strategy being tricky.”

 

“I think the Enemy has already made his decision.” Heóstar pointed to the field, where a black figure brought order in the ranks of the Orcs. “They are coming for us.”

 

TRB

 

Boromir jumped off the Drakhár that had carried him across the bridge. The defenders on the long span were already scrambling in their direction, but their advantage was diminished as they had attackers to fight on both sides. The Nazgûl had taken the bait – or he was simply a conventional strategist – and threw the troops towards the two guard hills. “Scyrane, I have seen casket stacks on the other end of the bridges. Can your riders grab them and give Lord Aragorn some support? The mass of the Orcs is driven that way,” he said to the young rider.

 

“At once, my Lord.” Scyrane waited for the last fighter to be off his Drakhár and then redirected the flying lizard back into the air, turning towards the other side of the bridge where the Drakhár landing was. It held the usual casket stacks and other weapons that were needed in case of attack, though he did not know where the Drakhár wing guarding Barad-Dûr might be in this hour. He let his Drakhár dive and grab one of the barrels. It was top of the stack, an easy grab from a dive. The others had seen his signal and followed.

 

The Orcs were a teeming black mass in their push towards the Guard Hill. Scyrane’s comrades delivered their loads quickly and efficiently and then went back for more. Scyrane was a little slower in his rounds. He was looking for someone, but only on the third run he spotted him – a towering black figure holding the Orcs in thrall and driving them against their target. He guided the Drakhár into a slow sailing approach, waiting patiently until they came into reach. _They say you have to fear fire, so let’s see how you like a scorching._ The casket plummeted down, crashing its deathly load right onto the Orcs surrounding the Nazgûl and Scyrane saw how the Wraith caught fire. He could not watch more because two arrows whistled past him.

 

He pulled up and he realized that the arrows had not come from archers on the ground, but from the same height as he was. As he turned about he saw another Drakhár chasing him. Its rider threw a spear at him. Scyrane drew his blade and knocked the spear out of its path as he had been trained to do. His mind was racing as he dove, letting his Drakhár slip through under one of the bridges.

 

As he rose anew he got a clear sight of his opponent: he rode a huge blue scaled Drakhár. Scyrane almost did not believe it, a blue one. They were a wild breed from beyond the broken lands, and therefore only very few tamers allowed them into their pens. Even less handlers dared to approach the wild, spirited beasts. They were said to be almost untamable. That rider must be one of the best to have tried and succeeded. Again he swung at him and Scyrane evaded the attack, taking his bow as he did so. A few more Drakhár had appeared in the skies; now he knew where the defenders of the Tower were.

 

TRB

 

The bridge defenders had not lasted long; trapped between Boromir and his fighters on one end, and Dwalin and Anvari advancing from the other, they had been forced to fight a two fronted battle they were unprepared for and it had been their end. Boromir sent the last down in blood. The fight had been short in his perception. Here, under the Tower, he felt the dark echo inside him stronger than ever. “Dwalin, Anvari, you hold that bridge; we need a way out in the end. Shakurán, where is the gate of the Tower?”

 

“Come with me.” The Easterling led them away from the bridgehead and towards a jagged set of stairs, wrought from steel. Sharp thorns of the same metal rose at the sides of each stair as they led towards the gate of the Tower itself. The archway was black, shaped like it had been wrought from deformed hot metal; twisted and wound until the very shape of the gate was misshapen to the eye. A glow like fire shone from the dark hall behind, like there was a flame searing inside the darkness of the Tower.

 

Slowly Boromir changed the sword into one hand, trying to steady his ragging breath even as he could not steady his restless heart. This was it, the gateway into darkness, the very seat of the Dark Lord. For two ages men had cowered in fear of the monster that haunted their world. Men had fought and died without the slightest chance to call this creature to justice… and now they stood here. They were at the very doorstep of Sauron himself and even inside Boromir there was a spark of doubt, a whisper of fear, that should he dare to cross this threshold, he would not escape; the darkness would swallow him up. He cast a glance at Kíli, who was with him. “Tell me again that hope does not die…” he said softly, only for the dwarf to hear.

 

“Do not speak of hope forlorn,

though night may cloud your eyes,

From darkness rises a new morn…” Kíli’s deep voice echoed the words that would always remind them of that hope, the words that had bound them together with a bond stronger than blood, heavier than steel and harder borne than fate itself.

 

“Until the darkness dies.” Boromir felt a warmth surge inside him, like there was a flame that was keeping the darkness at bay. It was all the strength he could find and all the hope he needed. Resolutely he strode up the stairs. The steel was clanking under his boots and each step casting an echo falling back from the iron walls of the Tower.

 

Before the gate of the Tower the guard fell into formation. They all were Easterlings, the best and hardest to ever serve the Shadow. Many of them must have been sealed to the darkness for many a common man’s lifespan and there was no fear Boromir could see in them, nor nervousness. They were too strong for that. He sprinted up the stairs and launched into attack. This was not a time for holding back, for finesse, and therefore each of his attacks was strong, brutal and efficient, aimed at killing them as fast as was possible. The fight became a whirl, a dance of death. He could see them fall, one after the other. Their bodies slid down and their blood smeared the dark iron stairs, but he paid them no heed or respect. Boromir walked over those who had fallen to fight the next until the last of them was dead.

 

He gestured his comrades to follow him, passed through the gate of Barad-Dûr and entered into the shadowed insides of the Black Tower.

 

TRB

 

The stone hurled by a far-off catapult smashed parts of the bastion. Fion ducked under the splinter rain, most of which was bouncing off his armor. While the Orcs were attacking the Guard Hill on the other side, they were under the main attack by the Haradrim and whatever Varigians they could scrounge up. With their numbers far less than the attackers, they had retreated into the deeps of the shadow-built bastion, delivering a labyrinth-fight that the Haradrim were not enjoying, so they had turned to using catapults to chase them out and it was working.

 

“Fion!” Canó came jumping up from the half broken lower level, followed by a handful more fighters. They left dozens of dead Haradrim behind below. “We need to fall back to Aragorn’s position. Where is my brother?”

 

Fion closed his eyes to concentrate, but the sense of direction was easy to tap into. “Still on the lower level. He might be cut off. Go ahead, I will get him,” he said, already checking for the quickest way to get down into the bowels of the bastion again.

 

Canó stopped him from jumping down by touching his shoulder. “Is he alive?” he asked, softly. For a moment the façade of the fighter gave way to the thoughtful, wise elf Fion had come to know and respect during the past decades.

 

“I still stand, and so does he,” Fion replied, trying not to sound gruff and failing at it. “Do not worry, Canó, I will prevent him from going out in a blaze of glory if I can.” He knew Rú expected death here, a death in battle against the darkness. Maybe he regarded it a kind of atonement for past failures. And Fion heartily disagreed with him on that, not because he feared death, but because he felt Rú took his own guilt as something too heavy and too dark. He could not begin to imagine what Canó must feel like, seeing his last living brother charge off like that.

 

“If you cannot break through to us, make for the mountains,” Canó said, before he led the other elves towards the bastion’s broken back wall, from whence they would make their retreat.

 

Fion jumped down into the hole in the ground, landing on one of the lower levels of this orc-built maze. There were no living Haradrim in this section; Canó and his elves had been thorough. He headed down the next tunnel, following his senses as he navigated the maze. The Haradrim seemed to be regrouping too, for he encountered only splintered groups that he could fight on his own. Still, Fion held tightly onto his focus to make sure that the rage didn’t take him. If he let it, he was not sure he would come out again and he could not afford that, not before Rú was out of here.

 

As he headed around the next corner he heard fighting. The sounds spurred him on and he saw Rú, standing with his back to the wall, fighting off several Haradrim. More already lay dead on the ground. Fion knew Rú was a superior swordsman, one-handed or not, but the long fight had worn him out. Without hesitation Fion rushed in and joined the fray. The first two Haradrim died from a blade in the back. The third came about, only to be beheaded by Rú, and a fourth fell as well. The fifth however realized he did not stand a chance and ran.

 

Fion sheathed his sword swiftly and bridged the distance to Rú. “Your brother is leading the fallback towards the other Guard Hill and Aragorn’s position. The plan worked; troops are storming the tower,” he reported swiftly filling Rú in on the situation.

 

“Good.” Rú still leaned against the wall and Fion saw the blood running down his side, smearing wall and floor. “We only need to hold out until it is over… That was always our weak spot: holding out in the long battles, where not strength, but endurance decides on loss or victory.”

 

“You are injured.” Fion checked their surroundings. The bastion shook under the impact of another catapult stone it, but for the moment they were alone. “Let me take a look at that or you will bleed out.”

 

“It is nothing, I have had worse.” Rú pushed himself away from the wall, standing on his own strength. He did not wait for Fion to comment, but chose the path that would bring them outside as well. Grabbing his sword again, Fion followed. He was used to Rú not allowing for weakness, and that Rú would often not tolerate any worry shown about him. It was a part of their friendship that Fion had learned to hide such worry well and that he had gotten used to Rú’s sharp tongue in that regard.

 

They reached a rift in the wall, where the catapults had already broken the main fortification. When another stone hit, the ceiling gave in, as did parts of the walls. Stone rained down and the main support beams crashed to the ground. Fion felt stones hail down on him. He reacted with the swift reflexes of his people and jumped backwards, rolling over the ground and out of the main collapse zone. More stones came down and he heard the horrible cracking when another support beam caved. When the bastion stopped shaking, grey stone dust and ash hung in the air. Fion scrambled to his feet, but could hardly see anything, except for dust clouding the air. He used his hands to navigate his way back towards where he knew Rú to be. The elf lay on the ground, two heavy support beams trapping him, his legs buried under rubble. His breath was slow, but stable. When Fion checked the beams to see if they could be moved, he opened his eyes. “Troops will come soon, Fion. Go, find Canó. You cannot free me.”

 

Fion looking around and saw he was right: Haradrim were closing in from outside, through the gap in the wall. “They won’t get you, Rú, not as long as I can fight.” He turned around, his back to the collapse zone, and grabbed the sword with both hands. The Haradrim came rushing, their numbers constrained by the narrow and unstable surroundings, but still they attacked in groups. Fion did not let one slip past him. His mind relaxed as he opened to his focus, to the song of the dragon’s blood inside him. He felt the anger slowly uncoil as his movements picked up speed and the world became a grey haze of mist. The rage slowly unfolded its wings inside him as the dragon’s blood sang to him and Fion embraced it. _For one final dance with the black veiled Lady._

 

TRB

 

The troll hammer buried deep into the ground beside Aragorn. The Olog-hai that had thrown it fell from one of Faramir’s arrows moments later. But it was only one of many that they were up against. After the scorching of the Nazgûl an Easterling had taken command of the Orcs and while he did not have the presence of fear to command them, he clearly had more experience than Aragorn liked.

 

The next Olog-hai came close, his club sweeping over the ground. He threw several fighters into the air, but Aragorn managed to duck under the attack; he could feel the crude weapon swipe the air just above his head. The moment it was past him, he came up and rammed his sword into the huge troll’s knee. The creature screamed and stumbled, collapsing to his knees. Thoroniâr used the moment to jump on the troll’s shoulder to ram his sword into the Olog-hai’s neck. With a loud crash the troll collapsed on the ground. Another one landed half on that corpse and Thoroniâr had only just the chance to jump away before he could be buried under a mass of dead troll. Aragorn turned around. He was surprised to see Gríma, who had strangulated that troll with a steel noose. The Rohirrim paid him no heed, but picked up another one of these ghastly weapons the Varigians used and had lost in mass on the field, before he joined with Aeonar again.

 

Aragorn turned towards the storming trolls. Andúril was singing with anger in his hands as he tackled the next one, that was trapped between Heóstar and Veryan. Ramming the blade deep into the troll’s guts caused the Olog-hai to thrash around wildly, before he collapsed. There was no time to even finish him properly; behind the Olog-hai, the Varigians were send to storm again, their charge wild and unfettered. Aragorn fell into formation with whatever defenders there were. Heóstar and Thoroniâr were with him, as well as Éowyn, while Faramir and the archers still picked off many a foe before he could reach them.

 

The battle raged on and Aragorn could hardly tell how many hours had passed when the elves reached them. Their retreat had sown additional chaos on the field, and they were a welcome support on the hill, though it made Aragorn wonder how long this battle would drag out. Now and then the Enemy troops were under threat of caskets dropped by Drakhár, but in the air raged a fierce battle between two Drakhár groups and he could not even begin to guess who was winning or losing there.

 

Dusk settled on them – the dark, grim dusk of Mordor – when a shriek rose on the field, the unearthly scream of the Nazgûl. For a moment Aragorn thought they were taking to the field again, but no, they rose on their fell beasts into the skies, flying shrieking towards Orodruin. Their shades were like dark blots before the blood red setting sun, as they soared towards the Mountain of Fire.

 

TRB

 

Frodo’s hand shook with exhaustion when he pulled himself out of the ravine and towards the jagged plateau. They had come out of the incision the lava had cut a long time ago and now stood on the Plateau of Dust, where a narrow path led further up towards the Sammath Naur, the Cracks of Doom. Panting and gasping for air, he felt the Ring becoming heavier on the chain again and his sight swam with a wheel of fire.

 

“Master Frodo.” Sam had reached him, shaking him slightly. “Master Frodo, we need to go on. It cannot be much further.” His face was smeared with ash, ash that also stained his clothes and his tousled hair had taken on the color of dark dirt during their journey up the fiery mountain.

 

“They have seen me,” Fordo whispered. He felt the presences draw close, much like on that day near Weathertop when the riders had sprung their final trap. “They are coming here. We cannot outrun them.”

 

“But I can hold them of.” The softly whispering voice made Frodo almost jump. When he turned around he saw Aelin with them, but not the warrior that had been with them since they had set out from Rivendell, but a shining ethereal form of him, that reminded Frodo at once of the spirits they had seen in Ost-in-Edhil.

 

“Aelin… Oh, no… you…” Frodo could not say it, but he knew beyond doubt that their friend had perished, covering their climb up the Mountain.

 

“My body lies on the foot of this Mountain, but my spirit lingers,” Aelin spoke, his voice like a whispering echo. “Go on, Frodo. I will hold them off. Like me they are spirits, so we meet on the same plane.”

 

“Aelin… Are you like those poor fea in Ost-in-Edhil? You have to leave, you cannot linger,” Frodo insisted. He did not want their friend to embrace such a cruel fate.

 

But Aelin simply smiled at him. “My time here is limited, Frodo, but I am allowed to use it. Now run. Haste is the key.”

 

The Nazgûl swooped closer and they were met by the bright, shining figure of an elven warrior awaiting them. They never saw the two smaller figures sneaking away between the rocks.

 

TRB

 

The Tower was an abomination, a maze of dark metal, of thorns and spikes, of empty gateways and twisted halls, the likes of which Boromir had never seen any before. It was as if the entire structure had been formed out of tortured steel that had been ripped from the roots of the earth and forcibly given this form. Followed by Kíli and Shakurán Boromir made his way through the twisting halls, towards the top of the tower. The emptiness of the halls was depressing, like there was something here; a vast, mighty spirit, now trapped in the silence, eternally calling out to only hear the echoes of his own voice.

 

Finally they came up a spiked well of stairs to see the bridge that led towards the throne hall of the tower. The gates were black and covered with bloodrunes, and before those gates the remaining guard had assembled. Boromir smiled. Easterlings were nothing if not persistent, even when they were losing. He respected that quality in them; they would make a good army once this was all over. As he looked aside, he had a view outside through the large gaps in the steel walls of the tower. The wind up here was cold, but what he heard above the cold whirling were the shrieks of the Nazgûl as they headed for Mount Doom. “They had to catch on sooner or later.” He knew that the hour had to be close, very close, and if the Nazgûl knew, then Sauron must sense the Ring close to the forge where it had been made. They could not allow Sauron to focus on it, to understand what was to come. This was the final hour, the end had come.

 

“Shakurán, go back down and tell Dwalin and Anvari to fall back from the bridge,” Boromir ordered the Easterling by his side. “Do not wait, and not waste time.”

 

“What about you?” Shakurán asked. “Once the bridge is lost, you have no way out.”

 

“I will not need it.” Boromir cast a sharp glance at Shakurán. “For one time in your life, do what I say and stop being annoying. Dwalin’s and Anvari’s lives depend on it.” The words had the desired effect and Shakurán turned around, heading back down to the entrance of the tower.

 

Boromir stepped onto the bridge. He did not need to look if Kíli was with him; he could hear the dwarf’s firm step behind him, like the heartbeat of someone steady and unshaken. He raised his sword when he reached the other side of the bridge, greeting the Easterling guard. “This fight is between your Lord and me,” he announced in the dark tongue. “Stand aside and open the doors. Tell your Master the Lord of the Morning has come for him.”

 

The leader of the guard advanced, three steps before the others. “I will not let you pass, Lord of the Morning. This is where it ends,” he replied before he attacked.

 

He had spirit, Boromir would admit, and he was strong, but he was no match for him. He might have been in that other life, he might have been before Saruman had woken the shadow inside him. Now the fight was short-lived; Boromir had his opponent disarmed within their first couple of bouts. It was sad to lose such a good fighter in the long run, but he would not dishonor him by sparing his life. Without hesitation he sank his sword into his chest and yanked it free again. The blade was glistening with blood. “You fail,” he said coldly, eyes on the other survivors. “Now open the gate.”

 

He did not have to repeat the order. The others obeyed, respecting that he had just killed their leader. They might prove useful, if they survived what was coming.

 

Boromir entered the hall behind the steel door. He thought at first that it was empty, another of the many empty halls of the tower, another place that only that haunting spirit inside the silence roamed, but then a flame rose from the ground, soaring high and spreading out. Flickering the fire came alive, but it was not the familiar fire of Kíli, nor any natural fire, but a flame of a different kind. It was shaped like a wheel and it burned freely in the air, heat searing from it as whispers. And within the flame Boromir saw him: a dark figure, vague and cast shadow, a figure in armor, not yet quite material, but already present. A voice whispered through the hall.

 

_I knew you would come for me._

 

“Boromir, careful, he is not…” The dark figure raised his arm with a dismissive gesture, and like hit by an invisible hand, Kíli was smashed against the wall. With an angry growl he came back to his feet, both hands at the sword, ready to advance. But only a fall of flame soared in his direction, cutting him off from the rest of the hall.

 

Boromir saw Kíli fall and the flames roar in his direction, and anger rose inside him. He rushed forward, the blade in his hands raised, not afraid of the flames that surrounded the dark figure. He jumped over the tongues of fire lashing out at him and ignored the sparks flying brightly. There was nothing to stay his hand now. He lunged forward and he buried his blade deeply in the dark apparition. He felt the blade hit, cutting through armor and a body. It was not yet quite real, but already enough to be felt. The blade vibrated with anger in his hand as the black form melted. It broke breaking apart, melted into the ground and vanishing from the room.

 

And deep down inside himself Boromir felt the dark seed break free and flower into completion. Suddenly he could see the figure in his own mind, still clad in the black armor and this time completely physical. He could see him standing there, inside his own focus, burning brightly in flame and when Boromir saw the face of the dark figure, he finally recognized it for his own.

 

The flames in the hall had burned down to a small remains and Kíli scrambled back to his feet, his body singed and wounded from the hits and the flame. He saw Boromir standing in the middle of the hall, sword still in his hand, but the _presence_ of the Dark Lord had vanished. “That was too easy,” Kíli said softly. “It was a trap… It has to be.”

 

Boromir looked up, turning to him, his once green eyes now darker than Kíli’s own. “Did I ever tell you what a fool you were, my friend?” he asked casually, as he advanced towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LadyDunla, my magnificent beta outdid herself on this chapter, helping me to straight out my wording on a number of lines. I will miss her the next week, when she cannot be there to help me out. So thanks and have a wonderful time! And I am really sorry for the cliffhanger… actually, no, I am not. :p


	41. The Heart of the Journey

“Have I ever told you what fool you are, my friend?” Boromir whirled the blade around his hand. The gesture was as easy and casual as if the heavy sword had no weight at all. He advanced towards Kíli, his entire pose set on fighting.

 

“A few times, I recall.” Kíli tried to keep his voice steady as he felt the bond burn with blackness, like their souls were being steeped in a darkness so great he could hardly see the way out. He backed away from Boromir, but kept his sword raised, slowly moving between the man and the door out of the hall. “And you have yet to mean it.”

 

“I had forgotten that optimistic streak of yours.” Boromir followed Kíli’s movements. “ _Hope does not die._ Your hope died long ago. You were never even meant to live.” He lunged forward. Kíli parried swiftly, but did not counterattack.

 

“You said it yourself, Boromir: the Lord of the Morning has to die.” Kíli blocked another attack, falling into one of the stance Rú had taught him years ago, to be able to block more swiftly. “And I will not let you get out of this hall.”

 

A barked laugh was his answer. “Boromir… You still would call me that, wouldn’t you?” Again their blades clashed. Kíli parried with the same precision as before. “Boromir is already dead, and you hardly knew him. The man you think you knew never existed. It was I who rested in his mind, a seedling, sleeping, unable to move or reach out. Only at night, when he slept, I could whisper to him, nudge him the right way.”

 

“You are liar!” Kíli snapped. He ducked under an attack and then pushed Boromir back. “I doubt you know Boromir at all.” He tried to reach for the bond, but there was nothing but darkness and it drowned out the echoes he had become so accustomed to.

 

Boromir’s face twisted in a grin. “And you still refuse to believe it, don’t you? You are still clinging to the hope I could be freed, but you do not understand. I am free now and I will rise to rule this land. It is the beginning of a new age, an age of power.”

 

Kíli ducked under the attack and pushed back at him, giving up on the defensive stance. _Watch of the Winterwolf_ made room for _Hawk streaks over fields_ followed by _Leaves falling_ and _Cat sleeps in the sun._ Boromir stumbled backwards under the sudden attack, surprise clearly written on his face. “I wonder who taught you your tricks,” he growled, pushing into attack with new strength. “It is almost sad I have to kill you; you were decent company most of the time.”

 

Whatever had taken hold of Boromir’s mind, it was not Sauron; he would have recognized the sword forms. Was this just an essence of what Sauron had been, an essence of evil itself that had seeped into Boromir’s soul, forming completion when Sauron’s feeble form had been destroyed? Kíli did not know. He only knew that this was what Boromir had spoken off when he had said the Lord of the Morning had to die. The very thought hurt. It cut right into Kíli’s soul, but he knew his duty, he _knew_ Boromir would not wish to live on as a monster, as a creature of the Shadow he had fought for so long. He had been willing to lay down his life to end this war and he had chosen Kíli to be his executioner.

 

The thought burned in Kíli’s mind as he dodged another attack. Boromir was taller and much stronger than he was and with the dark power fuelling his every attack, even all of Kíli’s skill with the blade was not enough to withstand him for long. Tears stung Kíli’s eyes. The thought of having to kill his friend… his _brother_ … had never been so sharp, so raw before. The very thought was like a blade slowly sinking into his heart.

 

“Tears, Kíli? You should not weep, least of all for me.” For a moment Boromir’s voice almost sounded like himself again, like the man Kíli had known. Startled he broke off his attack and he retreated a step again, only to see Boromir’s sneer. “Do you want to see your brother again, Kíli? Dear, loyal, little Fíli… I can send you to him.”

 

The words hurt, hurt worse than the thought of killing Boromir, worse than the moment in Lórien when he had lost his brother. Kíli shot forward and brought Ravenswing up hard. _Eagle hunts, Cutting the Reed, Kingfisher’s dance…_ The forms became faster and faster as he pushed against Boromir. Their blades rang in the ancient song of steel. He stumbled, slithering over the polished ground, but he managed to block another attack and jumped back to his feet.

 

As he whirled about to meet Boromir again, he saw the man had not used his chance to stab him in the back. “Kíli…” The word was only a whisper before Boromir attacked him again. A kick sent Kíli flying half across the hall and he crashed against a pillar. Pain rose in his shoulders and back, but he forced himself back to his feet. Boromir had already reached him and Kíli ducked, letting him run into the pillar, using his chance to attack from the side.

 

He had heard the one word… the whispered scream for help, or maybe it was a plea for death. There might not even be a difference anymore. He had heard his friend call for him, and he knew what he had to do, much as the pain of the thought ripped his heart apart. A fierce attack ripped the sword from his hand and sent it spinning through the air before it landed on the polished floor. Steel clang on steel.

 

Kíli stood panting. He did not try to outrun Boromir, who stopped his attack for a moment. “Pick up that sword,” he commanded, his voice cold.

 

“No.” Kíli remained standing where he was, between the door out and Boromir. He had no other weapon left; his daggers and throwing knives had long been used up in the battle.

 

“Pick up that blade. I am loath to kill an unarmed man,” Boromir spat. Anger twisted his proud face as he gestured towards were the sword had fallen.

 

“No.” Kíli gave up on the battle stance, instead opting on standing absolutely still. “You will have to kill me like this: unarmed and not fighting anymore.”

 

TRB

 

Frodo had always imagined the Sammath Naur as a forge, a little like the great forge of Erebor or like Kíli’s forge in the deeps of Erebor’s bedrock, a place where great things were crafted, echoing the skill and power of those who had walked these halls for generations. But the Cracks of Doom were nothing like that; they were a fission deep in the side of the Volcano, leading into a chamber of lava and fire, a long path of rock spreading high above the lave stream below.

 

The Ring hung like a millstone around his neck as he stood at the entrance of the cracks. As he looked back, down the path, the Nazgûl where fighting against Aelin. The fea of the Elf shone brightly in the darkness. And far away to the East he could see armies; a battle was waged on the plains east of them.

 

“Master Frodo!” Sam had reached him. He was breathing hard from having scrambled up the last bit of the rocky path. “We need to go on. It is almost done.”

 

Frodo closed his hand around the Ring on the chain around his neck. It felt warm in his hand, like a small fire, whispering and hissing softly. “I do not know if I can do this, Sam,” he said in a hush. “I was never meant to do it.”

 

For the first time he knew him Sam scoffed. “And I was not meant to come here either. I am a gardener, not a warrior or a bodyguard, Master Frodo, but I am here. It does not matter who does it, as long as it is done.”

 

Frodo still hesitated, because this was Bilbo’s heirloom. He had found it, researched it and had then given it to Frodo. He felt Sam shake him. “Frodo, look back the path. Aelin is fighting to keep the Riders off us and down there,” he pointed towards the battle, “down there they are fighting, fighting so there is another day for this world. They all fight, and they believe in you. As do I.”

 

The words struck a chord inside Frodo. He remembered Bilbo telling him of the Battle of the Five Armies, many years ago when they had been sitting together by the fire in Loreseeker Hall. “ _I was part of that battle. I stood between the dead and the dying, knowing Thorin and his sons lay behind me, among all the others cut down, and I fought to protect them,” Bilbo had said. “I do not know how long we fought, I do not know how many I killed; it was all a madness of bodies, of blood and of screams. That the life of a warrior such as Thorin, that the life of my King, would depend on a small Hobbit seemed impossible in that moment…”_

 

And now, he was here, and the very thought that all those who fought down in the plains would rely on him, Frodo Baggins, to fulfill the final task, seemed almost laughable. And yet Bilbo had entrusted this task to him. Bilbo, the very name woke so many memories in Frodo, of a long journey away from home, of a home amidst strangers and of wonderful years in Erebor. He thought of Thorin, who had died defending the Mountain Home, and of Fíli, who had fallen only days after. Strange, that would make Asutri King under the Mountain next, the very same Asutri who had taught him how to climb steep rock and who had taken him along on trips to the heather in summer. They all relied on him now. As he called up the picture of each and every one of them Frodo stepped inside the Sammath Naur.

 

TRB

 

Kíli knew this was the end and he did not flinch away from it. He stood right in front of Boromir, awaiting the final blow. He knew he could never win the fight against him, but his death would spell the death of Boromir as well, and thus free him of the darkness that had taken possession of him. It was the only way to free him and Kíli walked it fearlessly, his gaze leveled on Boromir, who had raised Shadowbreaker, ready to swing it. It was strange that he should die by one of Thorin’s blades, but many a great blade had drunken the blood of their maker.

 

“You chose this.” Boromir’s voice was on edge as he swung the blade and Kíli wondered why he thought he could hear an echo of his friend in those words.

 

“I know.” The blade came about, but Kíli did not move, did not try to avoid the end. He could hear the blade sizzling through the air, but the blow never came.

 

“No!” Boromir turned, flinging the blade away. It crashed against the wall and cluttered to the ground. “I _won’t_!” Boromir’s voice was ragged, harsh and hoarse. “I will not obey you… never…” His hands shot up to his temples as a shudder went through his strong body. Only moments later he collapsed to his knees in the throes of an invisible pain.

 

Kíli forgot all about danger or being careful as he hurried to him. He squatted down and gently took hold of his shoulders, supporting him. An echo of the pain became feasible to him inside the bond and Kíli allowed it, took it in, took hold of whatever thin strand remained of their bond, no matter how much it hurt. “Boromir,” Kíli spoke softly. He hardly dared to hope that somewhere under all the pain and darkness his friend still endured.

 

“Kíli…” Boromir’s voice was still hoarse, almost broken, like he could not speak. The pain was still shaking him, but he looked up. Their eyes met and Kíli saw the familiar green shine at him, although there was still an aureole of darkness around them, an echo of shadow. “I…” His voice cracked. “I almost killed you…”

 

It was him. Somewhere beneath all the torment the shadow heaped upon him, Boromir was still fighting, struggling on his path back to the light. Wordlessly Kíli embraced him and he reached for him through the bond. It hurt. It burned far worse than the brand of the Goblins long ago, or the torments of Minas Morgul, but Kíli did not let go. He felt Boromir’s strong arms around his shoulders, and those powerful shoulders shook under the barely constrained pain as the darkness tried to regain control of Boromir’s tormented mind. “Can you forgive me?” Boromir’s words were barely above a whisper, but Kíli heard them.

 

“Always, brother,” he whispered. The words came out in Khuzdul, the only tongue he dared to express his thoughts in. He’d always forgive him, because there was nothing to forgive. He had often wondered how Fíli had forgiven Thorin long ago, but now Kíli understood that what punishment Boromir’s soul already endured, was worse than anyone deserved, that Boromir hated himself with such an intensity… And all he wanted was to somehow end the torment.

 

Far away, outside the huge window of the hall a light rose. It was like a flower of sheer fire rising towards the night skies at first and then like a searing flame. Orodruin erupted and its fire scorched the skies itself. Boromir screamed as the pain seared through him like living fire, like his own body was aflame, melting in the lava of the volcano. A choked sob _came from_ his throat. “Kíli… the bond… release it…” he rasped as the pain soared anew.

 

“No.” Kíli had not let go of Boromir and he steadied him again when the pain wrecked through him. “We will come through this together; I promised you, you would not be alone.”

 

The Tower shook like the very Earth under it was moving and they both were tossed across the room, crashing against a wall of steel. Kíli reached for one of the strange thorns in the wall and pulled himself up, before he helped Boromir to stand as well and pulled him closer to one of the walls, where two mighty support walls conjoined. Boromir was half delirious with pain, collapsing again when they reached that spot. “You have to Kíli… He… he will die and he will take me with him…”

 

Kíli knelt down opposite of him and grasped his shoulders. He could do that, because between the conjoined walls they were as stable as they could be inside the shaking tower. “Then I will be your anchor,” he said softly, leaning close, so their foreheads touched. He let go of any sense of self or of survival and embraced the flame. Kíli reached into the bond and drew the pain towards him; he welcomed the pain, embraced it. He would hold onto his brother to the very end, no matter if they both were drowned in darkness.

 

TRB

 

The ground was breaking apart and rocks sank into the deep within moments, while other stone pillars rose. It was as if the elements itself had awoken to take their revenge on Mordor. Aragorn only just managed to jump away from a sinking rock and towards a pillar. A strong hand grabbed him and helped him up. Faramir aided him to climb up fully. As Aragorn looked around, he saw a handful of men with them, and more who had made it to the higher grounds, now stranded on similar islands of rock, while deep down lava broke out of the ground.

 

Others were still trapped below, close to the breaking earth and searing lava. Was there any way to help them to reach the higher pillars? He frantically looked around and spotted several other stone spires that had risen. There was some distance between them but they almost formed a stair of sorts, only no one below could see it. “Faramir, signal any warrior you can see to scramble to higher ground. We need to evade the lava if we want to live,” he ordered. “I will get those who are trapped below.”

 

Before Faramir could protest, Aragorn jumped down to one of the lower stone islands still standing, leaping onto the next and to another, until he reached the big one where so many men were trapped. “No, it is too far,” he heard Éomer’s voice. “Or I would tell them to jump. I would not wish the death in the lava on anyone, not even on Gríma.”

 

Aragorn looked to the side to see Gríma and another man – he assumed it might be Aeonar – trapped on a small rock island on the very edge, far too close to the surging lava. “Éomer, do you see that pillar over there?” He pointed ahead, towards where he had seen the rock spires form the stair. “It is a way up, but you need to jump.”

 

Surprised Éomer turned to him, but then he nodded. “The still standing will have to help the wounded.” He raised his hands, making a gesture to yet another spot where men were trapped. Amongst them Aragorn recognized Elrohir.

 

The climb towards the crumbling heights was not something Aragorn would ever forget; the grounds shook time and again, as Orodruin erupted fully – spitting fire, lava and ash into the uncaring night – the dry grounds broke open, sank and filled with fire. The elements themselves raged as the power of Mordor began to shatter. They had just reached the heights again, gathering together on whatever stone islands had risen from the ground, trying to make room for all people escaping from below, when a horrid crack sounded through the darkness.

 

Aragorn’s eyes widened when he saw Barad-Dûr come apart. Parts of the outer wall were tumbling down, crashing into the lava below, and other parts followed. The Tower was slowly collapsing. He thought of Boromir, who had to be somewhere inside. Was there any chance he could still be alive? Could he survive the Tower’s demise? He did not know, but as another piece broke off and landed inside the molten lava, his heart doubted that anyone could make it through this horror.

 

TRB

 

Scyrane saw the light flower up to the skies; Mount Doom was erupting with the force and anger only an ancient fire mountain could muster. _Behold the Wrath of the Deeps that rises in flame, behold the anger of the worldmaker when he shakes his hammer. Pray that he spare you, pray for the world to be spared._ He recalled the lines of the old story of the breaking of the world. He brought his Drakhár about. His attacker was nowhere near, and with any luck the ash cloud would blind him. For Scyrane had not forgotten about his orders: when the light rose in the west, they were to grab whatever troops they could reach and get them out.

 

Boromir of Gondor, he thought, while he guided the black Drakhár back down towards the battlefield, he truly had been the Lord of the Morning. _Day dawns at night and light rises on the western horizon on the day he dies. Weep for his death, for it brings the fire to cleanse the world._ And whatever his final orders had been, they would be carried out.

 

As he dove through the ash cloud, he saw that there were more than just a few troops scrambled on the rocks and on whatever high ground could be found, while Barad-Dûr itself collapsed. He bit back a comment. Númenorans, the sea had not drowned them and it seemed the day the fire took them was not yet here. Nudging the Drakhár to soar down he chose one of the lowest landings, the most endangered to begin. There were mainly injured people on that stone pillar. Many were lying on the ground unable to stand on their own feet, others too exhausted to even try.

 

But when his Drakhár hit ground at the edge of the rock island, someone jumped up. It was a warrior in black scale mail, swords in hand, who was blocking his path. “Back off, traitor,” he drawled in the hard accents of a man having served in Mordor for a long time. “You want these maggots and you won’t get them… Your pretty beast cannot flutter up if I won’t make room.”

 

Seeing the contorted features of the other Easterling Scyrane could only guess, or wonder, what had happened to him, what had broken his mind. But with the Shadow itself fraying, it might have a backlash on his servants as well. “There are more of our people here,” he said firmly, while he slowly reached for his sword, because he was out of arrows, thanks to the battle in the air. “You should aid those, and let me rescue whom I am sworn to aid.”

 

“Not so fast, little traitor,” the other Easterling snarled. “Maybe I should slaughter some of these maggots first, like little swine!” he spat out. Before he could speak on, two arrows hissed through the air, hitting his throat squarely. He choked and stumbled, and then his body collapsed on the stones.

 

Scyrane looked up and saw the familiar silhouette of a blue Drakhár soar close; the rider had fired the arrows and he now guided his mount to land vertically, claws digging deep into the rock of the stone pillar. He had taken off his helmet and Scyrane saw a proud Easterling face, framed by black hair, with a few pale streaks. Both seals at his temples were bleeding and the blood that came from the wounds was marring his cheeks. “Your Drakhár cannot take all of them,” the rider said, gesturing to the wounded soldiers. Many of them were from Gondor, some were elves. “But mine can take the rest.”

 

“Why?” Scyrane could not hold back the word, disrespectful as it might be towards a much older soldier. But the rider simply shrugged and put his bow away.

 

“Because we are not Orcs,” he replied, before he made his Drakhár stretch his wings to allow wounded to climb on the mighty mount’s back. “And it will take any Drakhár still in the air to get all people off these rocks before they collapse.”

 

Silently Scyrane agreed. It might mean rescuing all of them, friend and foe, but it was the best agreement he could get and more than he had expected from the man who had almost killed him less than an hour ago.

 

TRB

 

The flame seared inside Boromir. It was like a fire slowly burning him out from the inside. The darkness was still eating at him, clawing into his mind to somehow escape the fiery death in the deeps of the Cracks of Doom. He could not see anymore; there was only darkness around him, as if the world had ceased to exist. He still felt Kíli’s strong arms steadying him. The presence endured it with him, sharing the torment as the fire burned through his soul. How Kíli could bear this he did not know, for his own mind barely hung onto the threads of sanity, quickly fraying under each new surge of pain.

 

He almost could feel the darkness still entrenched into him and he hated it, hated that he had been too weak to control it, that he had almost killed Kíli, that he had become a slave to that shadow. The fire came again and in the searing heat he forgot about thought or existence, for long moments… hours… There was nothing but hot-white pain and that small bright spot inside him that did not hurt, that still held him. When the pain left off for a moment, he clung to it, like a drowning man would to a beam of wood, like he had done two years ago when he had almost drowned in the rage of the seas.

 

He let go and relinquished the fight, letting the fire reach the dark parts inside him. It was hard, much harder than he could have imagined, to cease to fight the fire and to give himself over to the flame, to let it scorch the darkness, to let it eat him alive. He had no strength for screams anymore. Beyond the pain he did not know what was left of himself, of his body. By rights he should be burned to cinders.

 

Again the fire rose, singing away the darkness. It felt like parts of himself were dying, were burning. And through the pain he remembered, he had done this before – let a power burn away parts of himself, letting it take what must be relinquished – so he could do what he had to do. Pushing beyond the pain, beyond the horror of doing that again, he stopped the struggle, stopped the resistance, and allowed the fire to take what it had to take. Boromir let it burn away part of himself; he offered it up so the darkness could die.

 

The pain that came was one he knew; it was not of the body, but of the soul. When his ties to the world were shaken, the strings tying him to his place in the great pattern were severed, he could not scream, he could not weep, but the agony he felt demanded he’d do both. All the more strongly he reached for that small spark of light, that cool spot inside him that was his refuge, that still healed him when he thought he was beyond help.

 

Suddenly that cool spark inside him began to shine in a light so radiant, it would have blinded him had he seen it with the naked eye. And from the light rose a star, golden and layered, whirling in the darkness. And now he could see again. He stood in the void on that very star, feeling the mithril chain still link him to Kíli. The pain was not gone – it still was there and it made his soul wither in agony – but there was a barrier between him and the pain. It was flimsy and only scarcely there, but it allowed him to see clearly. Beyond the star he could see Kíli, kneeling in the darkness, struggling to hold onto the bond, accepting whatever pain or punishment it brought. And here and now he understood: it all came together, the pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place. He now knew why he had chosen to do this – to protect Kíli from a darkness as ancient and powerful as the one entrenched in his soul – but for cheating fate so gloriously, there had been a price. The price was to bear the darkness himself, to ensure that the darkness finally died and did not find another way to escape.

 

And while the price had been steep, he had been granted this blessing, a blessing that could have turned into torment, had their friendship not been rekindled. Now he finally understood why he had gone on his long journey, and why he had to endure this last step; it would complete his path. He had wanted to rid the world of one darkness surviving and now he too had to make sure that the darkness would die as it should.

 

“Until the darkness dies.” Boromir heard his own voice echo out into the void as he relinquished himself to the light, releasing the last of the darkness he carried. It tore at his soul and like in a pond he saw echoes: his father, his brother, his mother, his cousin Veryan… Their images floated by as he felt he was again cut off from them. That part of his soul was dying. It hurt, but he did not falter. He understood why he had to bear this, and so he accepted the pain. But all the while he felt Kíli, who bore the torment with him.

 

It ended as fast as it had begun. The golden light faded, winking out of existence. The star began to fade and Boromir knew he would never see it again. Suddenly he felt Kíli’s hug again as his mind rejoined his body, that was still shivering from the past pain, but he was free… finally free. He opened his eyes to meet Kíli’s gaze. Neither of them could speak, neither of them had words for what had transpired, but they both held onto each other, kneeling on a broken piece of steel floor, still attached to the rising spire of the conjoined walls, while the rest of the Tower had long since collapsed around them.

 

TRB

 

Dwalin felt a strong hand grab his arm and haul him up; Yúrar had pulled him to safety. Their retreat from the bridge had become chaos when the lava rose and doused the grounds around them with fire. Being dwarves they could tolerate more flame and fumes than any other being of Middle-Earth, but this was too much, even for them.

 

As he looked around he did not see many of their troop, though they had been here before, when the climb began. “Yúrar, where are the others?” There was no real way out, but maybe if they risked the lower lave beds, they might still escape.

 

Wordlessly Yúrar pointed to their right, where a mighty stream of molten stone cut them off from the safety of the foothills. Dwalin frowned and looked closer to discover that there was a section of the stream that was frozen, frozen like winter itself had come to the burning stream. Their troops were now using that passage to cross the river of fire.

“Night-child’s doing,” Yúrar said softly. “He is talking to the fire. A great gift he has.”

 

While Yúrar bent down to help Brea and another dwarf to climb up as well, Dwalin needed a moment to react. Night-child, that meant Anvari, for he had been the one born on the dark side of the Midwinter Night, before Midnight, while his twin had been born on the light side, into the new morning. But how could he do what Yúrar claimed?

 

Dwalin tried not to think of it as he helped a few more stragglers up, sending them on their way to the stream. He now understood why of all people Yúrar was the one Anvari had left here to send the others along. Yúrar was practically incapable of finding any fault in Kíli and some of that reverence extended to his chosen son. And… Dwalin hated thinking it, but Yúrar was crazy enough to not wonder how Anvari could make a river of fire freeze. No talking to the flame could explain such a feat, Dwalin knew this. He knew how far Kíli’s control of fire extended, and he’d not be able to stop a bushfire, let alone such a river.

 

 _“You judge too much and feel too little.”_ Bifur was the very last to climb up from the chasm that was now almost full of lava. He cast a sharp glance at Dwalin. _“Anvari has the gift of the deeps and it is not your place to judge.”_

The gift of the deeps… Dwalin shuddered; for all these years he had believed Anvari had been fully cured on Himring, that all he had needed to learn was to control his flame, that all the other _things_ that had come from the Blood of the Deeps had been healed. And Anvari had never shown any signs, not like Fion, who sometimes would slip up. He felt Bifur’s accursing stare. “You knew?”

 

 _“It was clear as day,”_ Bifur replied. _“And Anvari never minded me knowing.”_ With that the old dwarf took his pike and began to trudge down towards the river of flame.

 

Dwalin followed him, trying to sort his whirling thoughts. Maybe only now he knew why Fíli had finally accepted the adoption, because Kíli was the only one who truly knew Anvari, who knew all the secrets that linked back to those years, and who would always protect Anvari. He felt a jab inside. He should not have judged. Kíli trusted him to look out for Anvari, and Mahal’s Hammer, the lad would need it.

 

Angry with himself, Dwalin was the last to step on the frozen lava. It was not as icy as he had expected, like the fire underneath it had not died yet, but was sluggishly churning under the icy layer covering it. He began to hasten, his steps shaking the ice as he hurried to reach Yúrar and Bifur. On the other side he could see Anvari, who was kneeling beside the stream, his hands touching the lava, flames dancing on them. His face was set in a painfully focused expression. It was like a mask, frozen onto his face.

 

When Dwalin was off the river, he hurried to him and squatted down beside Anvari. The blue eyes shone brightly, almost like Anvari did not truly see him. “The others… are they across?” he whispered.

 

“Aye,” Dwalin said gently, even more angry at himself that he had been thinking badly of this young dwarrow. He cared for this young one and he’d protect him, no matter what, even if he sometimes scared him. “I was the last, all are across.”

 

“Good,” Anvari smiled and retracted his hands. He collapsed in on himself, his body giving in to the strain, and the last color drained from his face.

 

Dwalin caught him, lifted the unconscious dwarf up and carried him uphill, where the survivors were making camp, out of reach of the raging elements. He peered back once or twice, and he could see the ruin of the dark tower rise high above the lava. Some parts still stood, but most had collapsed. “Do not give up yet, Anvari,” Dwalin said softly. “Once camp is set, we will go and search for Kíli. He is stubborn enough to yet be alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LadyDunla did practically a nightshift to see this chapter corrected before she left. Thank you so much.
> 
> As for me, I am having a few chaotic days ahead of myself, so I cannot yet say how much writing I will get done tomorrow and Thursday, but I will definitely try.


	42. Out of the Night

Scyrane cast a careful glance at the western skies as he guided his tired Drakhár down to the Gondorian camp, he hoped that the Eagles would keep their distance. They had first appeared during the night, and their very presence was enough to make the Drakhár nervous. The few times he had been forced to land in the Gondorian camp while they were close had taken every ounce of control to keep the black Drakhár from either fleeing or otherwise panicking. Even the blue Drakhár had almost thrown off the wounded he carried when one of those huge eagles had streaked too close.

 

But now they seemed to have withdrawn, which was a small blessing unto itself. The black Drakhár tiredly flapped his wings as they soared down towards the hard patch of ground that was their landing place outside the Gondorian camp. A few soldiers came sprinting the moment he hit ground, even in the middle of the chaos they had a good organization in their camp, Scyrane would admit, though he could not make heads and tails of the logic by which they worked. “How many more?” The old soldier who reached him first, asked, he was in charge of the landing and would see to it that those rescued were taken care of.

 

“Severely injured for the most part, all of them yours,” Scyrane reported, “we fished them up from the rocks close to the lava. One is particularly bad of – he was half unconscious when we spotted him and another Dakhár had grab and toss him to me. I doubt he will last long.” He had already nudged the Drakhár to lie down, so the soldiers could help the wounded off the lizard’s back. They had to carry more than a few which had been so weak that they had not had a chance to climb to higher ground.

 

“Any more you can bring?” The old soldier went on, “I have no new reports, none of the last rescued has seen any new spots.” The Gondorians had swiftly begun to ask their rescued if they had seen others, relaying those information to the Drakhár riders.

 

“No,” Scyrane told him, “we too did not see any more.” He stopped speaking when the blue Drakhár sailed down, followed by another huge green one. Both carrying wounded. In the light of dawn rising slowly above the dust and ash, he saw the curt hand gestures of the riders. “They have not seen any more either – we had a patrol fly above the rocks for the last hour to search for stragglers.”

 

“It is far more than we could have hoped for,” The old soldier peered up at Scyrane. “You are the one Lord Boromir had named leader of our Drakhár riders…” he frowned slightly, his eyebrows forming a steep V on his forehead. “go up to that camp you Drakhár riders have set up and take charge there – take charge of all those other Easterlings who helped. I’d ask Shakurán but he has his hands full with helping those who escaped from the bridges, I’d not deprive our allies of an able-bodied help.”

 

Scyrane understood an order when he heard one and nodded curtly. “I will get to it at once, anything else?”

 

“Keep them together, report if there are any issues and… wait, the King will decide on you eventually.” Scyrane could hear an echo of perplexity in the older soldier’s voice. With Boromir fallen, they did not know what to do with those who had chosen to follow him. Nudging the Drakhár to fly up one more time, he guided it to the thorny plateau further up, where the Drakhár riders had set up their makeshift camp and where they had brought all the wounded Easterlings they had fished up from the battlefield.

 

Scyrane had not asked whence some of the provisions that had shown up during the night had come, he guessed from one of the fortifications in the Mountains of Ash. And silently he thanked all fates there might be, that their people were well used to the Ashlands an were of hardy stock, otherwise they’d lose many more of their wounded. Dismounting the black Drakhár he removed the heavy steel bridle, allowing the lizard to drink at the waterhole. The gleeful crooning of the beast told him how parched his faithful friend was.

 

The blue Drakhár had landed close and was in the water shortly after. Scyrane approached the rider, seeing he was stumbling. Grabbing his arm he supported the man’s faltering stand. “Careful there, you should see a healer.” He said, switching back to the Eastern Tongue, their common mother-tongue.

 

“It is nothing,” Like before when the man had spoken, Scyrane had noticed the hard accent, that bespoke a long time of having served in Mordor. Those who served the Shadow for a long time got used to speaking Morbeth a lot, and it showed in their accent after a while, thought with this one there was also the echo of something else, of the regular speech pattern that marked a true Easterling, hailing from the Great Inland Sea. “a momentary weakness, it will pass.”

 

Scyrane shook his head, he could see that the seals at the man’s temples – seals that usually should look like a tattoo of fine lines, had finally stopped bleeding and had dried. Though what that would mean, he could not say. “You can hardly stand on your own two feet, man,” he said a bit more sternly. “at the very least you need to rest and let the shock settle.”

 

The other rider allowed himself to be led a bit away from the waterhole where the Drakhár were drinking and to sit down by a few rocks that gave some cover from the wind. Scyrane went back to the waterhole to fetch some clean water to drink and then returned to him, he was surprised to see that the other rider truly seemed to recover a little, though he took the water gratefully. “What is your name?”

 

Scyrane had to bite back a rough laughter. They had fought each other, almost killed one another and worked together for the better part of a night to rescue others, but they knew nothing of the other. “Scyrane, and yours?”

 

“Jircanór, no need to tell me where you are from, one knows an Orc by the stench and Rhûn by the tongue.” He eyed Scyrane critically, surveying him with sharp eyes. “You felt nothing – no shock, no pain… you foreswore before it was all over?”

 

“Aye, I followed the Lord of the Morning,” Scyrane began to understand what had happened to Jircanór. “the seals… it happened because the Dark Lord fell? They burned out?”

 

“They bled, and the pain is a result of that – but they did not burn out. The Dark Lord may have fallen…” there was a grim, pained edge in Jircanór’s voice, that reminded Scyrane that this man had led Barad-Dûr’s Drakhár guard, he had served the Dark Lord directly, “but the Darkness endures. Beyond the Night, the Darkness still exists.”

 

“And it can wait there for another age or two,” Scyrane squatted down beside the sitting soldier, trying to forget that he was that much younger than him, trying to sound like he was older and much more confident than he felt. “right now we have to think of survival – our own and that of the Empire.”

 

Jircanór shook his head, the gesture pushing back the long mane of dark hair, and Scyrane again noticed the pale streaks, that did not fit the man’s face. He could not even begin to guess what kind of rituals Jircanór had lived through, or how long he had lived. If the Shadow commanded his soldiers lived longer than they should. “You really think these Gondorians will let us leave? Or even leave us alive, Scyrane? The Lord of the Morning is dead – his passing brought the fire that destroyed the Dark Lord, and finished the third trial of the world. The Gondorian King would be stupid leaving us to go home – and the Empire would not want our return. For the Empire will need peace to survive.”

 

“I doubt they will allow us to go back to the Empire,” Scyrane agreed, “but the world is bigger than the Empire. We’ll think of something.”

 

To his surprise a grim smile lit up Jircanór’s face. “You are an optimist, young one. But if you truly can find a way for us out of here – you’ll have my support.”

 

Scyrane tried not to blush, he knew what Jircanor’s support would mean, if it came to talk the other survivors around for whatever solution they might find.

 

TRB

 

“Shakurán,” Dwalin had not needed to search long for the Easterling, he had been with them on the retreat from the bridge. Like most of them he was tired, exhausted from the battle. “I have need of you.”

 

Shakurán pushed himself up from the ground where he had been sitting. “More stragglers down by the river of fire?” he asked, ready to go out anew.

 

Dwalin shook his head. “We got all that made it out up here – but, Kíli might still be somewhere in the ruins of the Tower.” He pointed across the plains, where the lava was slowly spreading further and further as Mount Doom spat out fresh ash and heat. Above the flows of lava rose the ruins of Barad-Dûr, a few spires were still standing, but they too would eventually crumble and collapse. “I had considered asking your boy to fly me over, but I’d prefer someone who has flown in the firelands and knows how to get a Drakhár across the flames.”

 

“You truly think he could still be alive?” Shakurán’s face echoed surprise, as his eyes surveyed the ruined tower. He did not comment on Dwalin’s words about the Firelands, he had a point there.

 

“I will not believe him dead until someone brings back a body to bury,” Dwalin grumbled, “and I will not give up on my King until there is no hope left.”

 

The words struck a chord in Shakurán. Prophecy and legend agreed that the Lord of the Morning would die as the third trial of the world ended, but… prophecy could err and had erred in the past, legend was just that. Maybe Boromir was alive somewhere in that wretched tower as well? “You are right, Dwalin, if anyone is stubborn and bloody-minded enough to survive this, it would be Boromir.” He agreed with him.

 

Without waiting for an answer Shakurán headed uphill to call for his Drakhár, hearing the familiar whistling the red Drakhár landed close to him. Dwalin had followed him uphill. Shakurán mounted the lizard, helping Dwalin to mount behind him. Once the dwarf had settled on the lizard’s back, Shakurán signaled the Drakhár to push off, using the small hill they were on, the Drakhár easily launched into the air, mighty wings flapping as they soared towards the skies. He cast a glance back at Dwalin, dwarves were not prone to like flying, but his look was met with a grin. “It might have been a while, laddie, but I still remember how it feels.”

 

Shakurán turned his gaze ahead again, as they flew across the carnage that had been the battlefield of Barad-Dûr. “You called him your King… though another will become ruler of the Lonely Mountain,” he observed, slowly guiding the Drakhár to circle the battlefield, soaring lower.

 

Dwalin barked a laugh. “When Kíli chose to forgo his legacy and join that war, we all knew he’d not come back – he’d never destabilize the role of his brother, for whom he had stepped down. And he’d not do that to Asutri either – and we, who chose to follow him knew that if we somehow survived this little dance with the Lord of Shadows, we’d be founding another dwarven realm somewhere. Maybe we’ll go back to Cardemir, Kíli was always more at home there than anywhere else, maybe we’ll stay right here and see what these ugly Mountains are like.”

 

“You wouldn’t want to stay here, too many Orcs and too many breeding pits,” Shakurán leaned forward, using his hand to support himself on the Drakhár while he peered to the side. “I thought I saw something in that ruin on the Eastern Guardhill… might have been a trick of the light.”

 

“We can go looking once we have checked the Tower,” Dwalin too peered down, before his gaze redirected towards the Tower ruin. The Drakhár began to circle the few still standing remnants of walls and stairs, the Tower’s remains were like twisted metal spikes still rising from the lava. Dwalin kept his sharp lookout, knowing that Shakurán would have his hands full guiding the Drakhár through this maze of spikes and fire. He saw a movement on one of the central spikes and peered again. “There… on that big spike in the middle – someone is there. Two people, I’d say.” He could not say more, he only vaguely saw movement and shapes through the veil of ash still hanging over the Tower’s ruin.

 

“Middle spire,” Shakurán confirmed, his focus entirely on the Drakhár as he guided him between the other spikes and through a still standing steel arch that now hung freely in the air, before they began to circle the central spire. On the rickety remnants of a platform he saw two figures, sitting close to the wall, to not destabilize their creaking refuge. One was a taller, the other shorter and compact… Shakurán could scarcely believe it. “You were right, Dwalin, it is them.”

 

Hastily his eyes scanned the unstable spire for a landing point, the spire was anything but reliable and would most likely bend under the Drakhár’s weight. “Dwalin… this will have to be quick,” he said to his comrade. “I’ll make a vertical on their left flank, that side looked the most stable. You need to grab them fast.”

 

Dwalin shuffled behind him until he was kneeling on the Drakhár’s back. “I am ready. Can you try for a wing grab?”

 

“It is the only chance we have,” Shakurán shortened the reins of the Drakhár as glided up against the spire, digging its heavy claws into the wall left of the platform. The spire creaked loudly when the Drakhár gained full hold of the wall, perching on it like on a rockface. The mighty wing reached across the platform swooping both warriors towards the lizard.

 

Dwalin reached out, managing to grab them, aiding their climb onto the Drakhár’s back. Neither of them had experience, making their mounting all the harder. The spire shrieked, bending forward, their angle suddenly shifting. With all his strength Dwalin held onto them, until they were on the Drakhár’s back behind him. “Got them!” he snapped at Shakurán letting him know they could go.

 

The spire was bending down rapidly now, bowing towards the cooking lava. The Drakhár released his hold on the metal and sailed down, wings spread wide they dived closer and closer to the cooking surface, before the mighty wings flapped again, propelling them back into the air. And over the hissing flames that devoured the remnants of the spire, Dwalin heard Shakurán laugh, it was not a bitter or defiant laugh, but one of genuine enjoyment, of loving playing the odds and coming out on top.

 

“Boromir, Kíli, are you alright?” Dwalin could not turn around to face the two riders behind him, relieved as he was that they were alive, he could only worry what they had been through.

 

“Alive, both of us,” Kíli replied, his voice was a bit rough, but he did not sound weak or like he was severely injured. “we were lucky you came for us – it would have been a fiery death otherwise. The retreat from the bridge…?”

 

“We got out in time,” Dwalin replied, “Anvari brought us through the river of fire, saved us all there. He is alive, if exhausted and he’ll be more than happy to see you, once he wakes.”

 

Kíli’s answer was cut off, when the Drakhár dove downwards in a narrow curve. “Shakurán?” it was the first time Boromir spoke, his voice was rough, as was Kíli’s and there was a change in it… Dwalin barely noticed it, for it also sounded familiar, like a timbre he had heard before, a long time before, when they had first met.

 

“I thought I saw something on the left guard hill when we flew in, and now it is there again,” Shakurán replied, “looks like someone lit the bastion stones in a signal fire… has to be one of yours, I don’t know anyone else who can make stones burn.”

 

Dwalin felt Kíli lean to the side, peering towards the hill they approached, most of the guard hill had been swallowed up by the river of flame, but the topmost ruins still stood above the searing lava churning all around. On top of the ruin Dwalin could see a pale flame, rising right out of stone, flickering coldly into the grim day. “A fire of the Reach… in the very heart of Mordor,” he whispered. “Fion would have been on that hill, would he?”

 

“He was there, with the other elves and Rú,” Kíli replied. “Could he have been trapped there during the retreat?”

 

“Neither Rú nor him made it out,” Dwalin told him, “they were lost when the retreat from that hill began. The loss of a hill… and the loss of two good friends,” He was not sure if he dared to hope, such a flame could easily mark the grave of both fighters, and not be a call for help at all.

 

Shakurán guided the Drakhár to land on one of the bastion walls still standing, the lizard easily perched there, nervous from the proximity of the lava, but keeping still at his command.

 

Kíli and Boromir dismounted together with Dwalin, hurrying up the few steps towards the top of the ruins where they could see the pale flame. Climbing over the rubble of the collapsed walls they reached the highest point, seeing a figure lying in the shadow of the wall with the flame.

 

“Rú,” Kíli jumped over another block of rubble and hastened to the prone elf. He found Rú unconscious, severely wounded, though someone had bandaged the worst injuries. The way Rú’s legs were bend, they too were injured, and the bruises all along his legs and sides left little doubt that he must have been buried under something heavy. For a dwarf those injuries spoke a clear language, they were the familiar traces of cave-ins and mine collapses.

 

Gently Kíli checked the injuries, relieved to find Rú still breathing. “He is alive,” he said softly, “though someone must have knocked him out, or he is unconscious from blood loss.” He knew that pain rarely was enough to take down an elf, let alone one as tough as Rú was.

 

Boromir had squatted down beside him, his eyes on the ground. “Someone brought him here – it is the safest place left on this chunk of rock, the same person to tend to his injuries, I would guess. And to light the signal fire.”

 

“Fion,” Kíli looked up to the pale flame on the wall. “only he could have done this. But where is he? He would have stayed with Rú to protect him.”

 

“Unless it was him Rú needed protection from,” Dwalin said gravelly. “Kíli, you saw the dragonblooded in the battle of the Five Armies, you saw what they could do… and what they became. This elf… he must have been buried under lots of rock, if I read his injuries right. In his enraged state Fion might have had the strength to move the rubble, to carry him here… maybe even close to the madness he still wanted to protect him – an instinct that still held true even in his feral state.”

 

The glare Kíli shot him warned Dwalin that he was on highly emotional territory, Durin’s House always was a little hot-blooded when it came to their family, and stubborn to fault. Pushing himself to his feet, Kíli turned to Dwalin. “See if Shakurán can bring Rú to our camp, so a healer can take care of him. I will go and find Fion.”

 

“We will,” Boromir had said little in the exchange but his entire demeanor made clear that he’d not let Kíli search alone. Seeing the short not of Kíli Dwalin noticed something – a change in Boromir that he had almost failed to notice. Not only that a few streaks of Boromir’s tawny hair had mellowed, paled to an almost ashen color, there was another change too – to his face, his entire being, he was again more like the man who had come with them across Middle Earth to slay a dragon, than the Captain of Gondor… in fact, somehow Dwalin found it hard to link him with the Son of the Steward at all.

 

“I’ll make sure the elf gets to the healers,” he said, this was not the time to wonder or even discuss what might have happened inside the tower. Boromir looked… changed, haunted and there were still others to rescue. “we will be back for you swiftly.”

 

When the Drakhár rose in the air, Kíli again surveyed the grounds around them. There was not much left of the former Guard Hill. “Could Fion simply lie collapsed somewhere?” he asked, knowing that this was not true, Fion had left Rú alone and there could only be one reason why.

 

“He either retreated underground, into a cave to lick his wounds,” Boromir replied, “or he went to the lava… to make an end.” There was no harshness in his words, though he well understood what might have driven Fion to do as he had done.

 

Together they navigated their path downhill, there was not much room, most of the grounds had been swallowed by the river of flame. Kíli’s heart almost stopped when he saw him – a lean blond figure, crouched between the rocks, ready to jump at any danger. Something wild, untamed surrounded him like an aura, a wild animal barely held in check. No, Kíli reminded himself, not an animal, never feral. He had seen this before, in Anvari, during the worst, darkest moments of his training, before control and discipline overcame the savagery that had been remnant of the black blood.

 

Carefully approaching the rocks, Kíli kept himself slow, as non-threatening as he had learned how to be. “Fion?” he said softly, hoping that there was a part in his cousin that still would remember the name.

 

The blond dwarf looked up, and while his face was wild, there was a glint of recognition in his eyes, a shadow of sanity prevailing. “You found Rú?” he growled, his voice deep and fierce like a wolf’s.

 

“Yes, the healers will take good care of him,” Kíli replied, even now, in his crazed state Fion cared about Rú more than about himself, or maybe their long friendship had enabled him to remember as much, even when he was almost feral.

 

“Good,” Fion rose, not like a warrior would but more like a cat, prowling forward. “Good… he’s safe… then I can leave.” He brushed past Kíli and towards the edge of the lava.

 

“Fion, no!” Disregarding all caution, Kíli followed him, grabbing his arm. “You don’t have to do this… you still remember who you are… you can find your way back. You did it before, Fion.”

 

With a movement so swift Kíli could not see it, Fion had grabbed him and tossed him on the ground, his hand above his throat, though he was not putting pressure into his grip. “No way out,” he growled, “darkness so deep… can’t claw it out… can’t rip it out…”

 

Kíli saw Boromir approach and through the bond asked him not to attack Fion, though he sensed that all inside Boromir was set on pulling Fion off him. “You do still remember, Fion,” he said in a hush, “inside your mind, there is a place that is quiet… you have to find it again…” He had been through this with Anvari, though Anvari had best responded to Canó when things got worst.

 

“The quiet is gone, Kíli,” Fion’s voice sounded almost normal again, as he stepped back and allowed Kíli to get up. “no quiet, no safety… you cannot go back who you once where, once the blood takes you. I have little time now… soon there will be nothing left of me.” He stepped closer, helping Kíli up. “Look after, Rú… don’t allow him to fret… he knew it had to end like this.”

 

“No,” Kíli fiercely grabbed Fion’s shoulders, not caring if he’d trigger the next attack. “you are still there, Fion, I can see it. A part of you is still fighting.” This time Fion did not attack him, but accepted the touch, Kíli could feel his shoulders still tense under his grip, but Fion did not struggle, he was controlling the urge to strike out. “You can do this, Fion,” Kíli kept talking, trying to somehow reach him. “you did this before – after the other battle. Your survived because of Rú… remember? He’ll still need you.” It was not fair to use their friendship like that, but Kíli knew that Fion was bound by bonds of friendship and duty to the Lord of the Dragon forge, and that it might be the only thing that had allowed him to fight off the madness before. They had come this far, and if this was the dusk of their age, he’d pray they could deny the darkness another victory.

 

A shudder ran through Fion’s body as he slowly collapsed, the feral strength that had kept him standing leaving him. Boromir was there to help Kíli catch him. “How?” Fion’s voice was barely above a whisper and Kíli understood what the question meant.

 

“You left Rú to protect him… you still knew he was your friend. That was you, Fion, not the darkness, nor the rage of the blood.” He said gently, squatting down beside Fion who had sat down on the ground, his entire body shaking.

 

“I let it take me,” Fion said softly, his voice low, “I needed the strength to fight… and when they were all dead, the lava came. Rú was trapped. I was not strong enough to move the rocks… so I let it take all of me, so I could tear those rocks apart… it was so easy,” he looked up, his eyes shining with a pain Kíli had never seen there before. “I thought it would die… when the Lord of Shadows fell, the darkness would die… but it didn’t, it surged, it raged… and it became stronger.”

 

“The Darkness of the Deeps is old,” Kíli said softly, Fion knew of the true nature of the poisoning since the time Kíli had brought Anvari to Himring, “maybe the oldest darkness existent in Middle Earth. And in the Deeps it will lie, hidden and guarded as long as there is one of my family alive to make sure it cannot reach the world again.”

 

A shriek in the air alerted them to the approach of the Drakhár, that was again circling above the ruins. Kíli rose, extending a hand to Fion, supporting him to stand. “Let’s bring you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright this is a bit shortish and tired chapter, written on the train and the tram mostly… with me being semi-asleep sometimes. :p. I hope my dear readers forgive me, that I forego my love for the tragic “and they died heroically” end just this once…


	43. Epilogue: At the dawn of an age

It was in the hour of dawn, if there was such a thing in the ashen lands of Mordor when Canó noticed a movement beside his brother. Rú had yet to wake from his sleep, though his injuries made it doubtful he would wake any time soon. At first he thought it might have been Fion, but the dwarf was still asleep as well. His hand sinking to the hilt of the sword Canó approached the other side of the small fire where Rú was resting, eyes trained on the surrounding darkness. Again he saw the movement, this time clearer than before.

 

“You will not need the weapon,” A familiar voice said in a whisper.

 

Whirling around the weapon almost slipped through Canó’s fingers when he saw the ghostly form of Aelin, standing close by. “Aelin, how can you be here? Your comrades said you departed after protecting them.”

 

The other elf smiled, even in the form of his fea his eyes could sparkle with amusement. “It was easier for them that way,” Aelin replied, “I certainly had not expected other elves to believe it.”

 

So he truly was a fea that had not left Arda, choosing to trap himself in this world, instead of departing. Canó shivered, no loyalty demanded such a choice, no one should feel he was to decide such… it was too much to ask of anyone. “Why… why are you still here?”

 

Aelin squatted down beside Rú, gently tracing his ghostly hand over the sleeping elf. “He will need healing – you know how he gets when he is wounded and cannot move about, and I dare say his friend is worse off than he likes to admit.”

 

“You staid because… no, Aelin, you should have left, gone wherever we are still permitted to go.” Canó tried to reason with the other elf, maybe there was still a chance for him to leave, before his fea permanently manifested here.

 

“I had expected to leave,” Aelin said thoughtfully, “and to find myself in the great darkness, in the company your brothers and many other old comrades, but instead there were two paths for me. One linking me back here and the other leading on to Mandos, the path back stronger than the one ahead.”

 

“What could tie your fea here so strongly?” Canó feverently hoped it was not the oath, no, it could not be, many of their followers had died and departed this world, though Aelin’s words gave him hope that the ill-fated oath long ago had not condemned them all to wander the void forever.

 

“I already told you,” Aelin replied, pointing to Rú. “do you remember when Findekanó brought him back to us? He was much worse than this, but also close to death?”

 

Canó certainly would never forget that day, who that had been there ever could? And then it dawned on him. Maedhros had been dying, not just from the loss of the hand, but all that had been done to him in Thangorodrim finally taking its toll and they had found a way to save him. “The spell,” he whispered, “it is that spell that ties you to him. But we all extricated ourselves from that link after her was healed. You did, as did I, Egandîr…” he could have named all seven elves that had linked their fea with Rú to stabilize him.

 

“I think it was the first time we truly shook up fate,” Aelin mused, “I do not think we were meant to do that, to find that way – it might well have been one of the forbidden portals. But it was only the first grain of change it wrought – it still ties us on some level, though we usually do not feel it.” He met Canó’s gaze. “and it created even greater ripples since. I do not know who of us let that spell come into the hands of mortals – or dwarrow for that matter – but it achieved a lot of good in the end.”

 

Canó shook his head. “And you still know how to distract me with a philosophical debate, Aelin,” he said sharply, realizing what the other elf was doing. “and I still wish you were not trapped in this world.”

 

Aelin’s form seemed to glow stronger, and Canó could see how Rú slowly relaxed in his sleep, the healing, the strength Aelin was sharing, reaching him. “Only that this world is no trap.” Aelin replied. “Though too many of us used to believe that. Born of Light we were and thence we return, our lives are but a journey into the night.”

 

TRB

 

Dwalin strode up the slope towards their camp, for all wishes to move camps out of Mordor, it had been impossible as long as there were so many severely injured. Though within the next week the camps should move back to Ithilien, if things went as they should, until then he had talk to Kíli.

 

He found Kíli, Anvari and Boromir sitting together, discussing something in hushed voices, when he approached Kíli gestured him closer. “Dwalin, the way you stride in, there is an issue to take care of.” He still was pale from what lay behind him, but the wounds were healing and whatever strain the events had wrought on him, he was healing.

 

“Yes,” Dwalin crossed his arms in front of his chest, “because someone has to talk sense to the Gondorians. I know we did not make much fuss about getting you two out of the Tower – but over at the Gondorian camp they are sure Boromir died. They say his brother had a vision – he saw him die. And when I tried to talk to Veryan he did not believe a word I said and I might not be the best person to ram some sense into their thick skulls.” His gaze went from Kíli to Boromir. “Maybe you should talk to them.”

 

Boromir shook his head, the movement highlighting the ash-pale streaks in his hair. “No, Dwalin, they are right in a way. Boromir died back in the Tower, as did the Lord of the Morning. The son of Denethor, the son of Gondor ceased to exist in the fire… what remains is just me.”

 

Dwalin’s hands became fists when he realized what Boromir was saying, for a dwarf firmly rooted in clan and kin, the very though was horrible. Being cast out of a clan was bad enough, but being burned away – losing all that linked one to their kin was a nightmare.

 

“Don’t you look at me like that,” Boromir’s voice gained a sharp edge, usually reserved for healers and other people ‘fussing’ over him, when he spoke. “it could be much worse. I have done this before.”

 

With a small smile, Kíli reached for his shoulder, interrupting what easily might become a full-flung argument between the warriors. “And you are still my brother, nothing will change that.”

 

Anvari tilted his head. “That requires a name, you know?” he said to Kíli, his blue eyes warming a little. When Boromir cast a questioning glance in his direction Anvari raised his hands slightly. “Being Kíli’s brother makes you my Uncle… and I won’t stand for you not having a proper dwarven name.”

 

Dwalin turned around, giving them some space, it also helped to stifle a smile. He had known Kíli had considered Boromir a brother – the man had no clue that it had earned him a nephew, and a bit of assorted clan. Durin’s House was nothing if not possessive of those they cared about, and that had not changed.

 

“You are right, Anvari,” when Kíli spoke his gaze was still on Boromir. “you are one of us now.”

 

A warmth spread inside Boromir, he might have again lost his ties to his old homeland, he might even feel a distance to his former family that hurt… but he was not alone, he still belonged somewhere. “Does it have to be both names?” he asked, he knew that dwarves had two names, the one that only their family knew, the name Mahal himself would know them by and the name the world called them by.

 

“You could of course keep Boromir as the name we call you,” Anvari had come closer, his hand resting on Boromir’s shoulder. “thought I always thought Aesir would fit you better.”

 

Aesir, battle-born, a part of Boromir agreed that it fit, in more than one way, though it would take time to getting used to it, he was not yet sure he could fully let go of the name that belonged with him and his long journey.

 

Kíli, like so often, understood without the need for words. “You can decide on that, when you feel the time has come,” he said. “As for the other…” he shortly looked to his son. “Anvari… what do you see?”

 

Blue eyes focused intensely on Boromir, and for one moment he felt like Anvari was not seeing him at all, but beyond him, the moment passed as fast as it had come. “A Raven and a Sword,” Anvari said frowning, like he was trying to make sense of it. “The same black Raven as on your shoulder.”

 

“A Raven and a Sword…” Kíli’s eyes shone when it came to him. “Balér,” he said softly, only for Boromir and Anvari to hear.

 

Balér, the name touched deeply, like something that had always belonged with him. In a way it was close to the meaning of his first name, as close as dwarven tongue could make it be. _Faithful Blade_ would be the direct translation, but the symbol for faith and loyalty amongst dwarves was the Raven, giving the name a second meaning. He felt Kíli’s hug from the one side and Anvari’s from the other, returning them in much the same manner. In the middle of all this, cut off from his old life and hardly knowing where his new life might lead… he knew he had found his brother again.

 

TRB

 

“We better start planning our march,” Brea tossed another thorn into the fire, the flames whirled up brightly. Another night had fallen and a larger number of dwarves had assembled at the heart of the camp. Dwalin, Brea, Bifur, Yúrar were only some of them. “we could be in the Ered Luin by Autumn, if we march swiftly.” Sitting on a rock she leaned back to look to Kíli. “And I’ll be honest – for all that Erebor was wonderful, I miss Eriador, along with haughty Dunedain, superstitious Hill Men, always flustered Hobbits, five ruins with ghost, the occasional Barrow-Wraith and always another surprise around the corner. Wilderland was a bit borning.”

 

There were some chuckled on that comment, but a general sense of agreement. Most of them had been thinking in the same direction now that they knew they were going to live beyond the war. Kíli rose, stepping closer to the fire. “I wish it was that easy, Brea, I wish I could say we go home to Cardemir and start a true re-founding of Belegost. For you are right, to me home will always be that valley under the Blue Mountains.” He looked at them, one after the other and his dark eyes became very serious. “I truly wish we could, because you all deserve a rest after the battles we’ve been through.”

 

“If we cannot go back to Cardemir, you must have your eye on another Mountain,” Dwalin said, “and if the rumors are true that Gandalf slew Durin’s Bane… Moria?” The last word was just a whisper, but enough to cause most of them to draw closer together. Moria was the old dream of their people.

 

“That is part of it,” Kíli’s gaze went from Dwalin to the others. “when I crossed the Mountains last autumn, I found a dying dwarrow who had escaped the deeps. It was Dori and in dying he told me that there is no free stronghold left inside the Misty Mountains. The Ironfists, the Stiffbeards, the Blacklocks and the Stonefoots – they all fell to the Orcs during the last years. When we crossed Moria I saw the captives – hundreds, if not thousands of dwarrow under the whip of the Orcs.”

 

He paused for a moment, letting the digest his words. “And it goes beyond Moria, from the Black Mountain in the South to Carn Dûm itself up North, the Orcs have taken to enslave and brutalize our brethren. We have sat by long enough. From the day we lost Mt. Gundabad we hoped, for alliances, for a stroke of luck, for others to help us until we lost the entire Misty Mountains. And it ends here – no one will do it, unless we do it ourselves. And I plan on going back to free our brethren, to begin at the fallen city of the Black Mountain and not stop until there is no dwarf in the hands of the Orcs anymore. It is time freed our people.”

 

“And we are with you,” Dwalin had spoken, beside him stood Brea, Bifur and Yúrar joined them, until they all stood. This was more than the legend of a fallen kingdom, more than the dream of Moria, and for all the strife there had been between their people, they’d not leave them to the Orcs.

 

TRB

 

Aragorn saw the change in Kíli when they met, it was not the paler complexion, echo of past exhaustion, but it was something else, like a stronger, more determined part of the dwarf had stepped into the foreground. He had perceived such a side to Kíli at times, when the dwarf had been under pressure and decisively taken the lead of a situation. In the deeps of Moria it had been most pronouncedly, maybe he was only getting used to seeing that side to Kíli. “I had hoped to talk to you,” he said, “for no matter how many visions and other portents announce it, seeing that you live tells me that Boromir… that he did not perish.” He understood that Boromir might not wish to return, that he might choose to go a different path, especially with the dark reputation he had gained amongst his own people, but he wanted to know that his friend was alright.

 

“The Lord of the Morning died in the Tower, and so did Boromir of Gondor,” Kíli replied, “the man who returned… let me just say, he is the same who gave you that sword long ago.” His eyes pointed to the short sword Aragorn still wore beside Andúril.

 

The words were a relief for Aragorn, knowing that Boromir was alive, that he would be alright was good. He recalled the warrior he had met so long ago and who had been absolutely at home amongst a troop of wandering dwarves. Maybe Boromir had finally come home – where is soul belonged. “I am glad to hear that, Kíli, though he leaves me with quite a problem on my hands.” He raised his head slightly, his chin pointing towards the plateau where the Easterlings were camped.

 

“This is why I asked to see you,” Kíli’s gaze had followed his gesture. “for I can hardly imagine that Gondor is ready to accept such a number of Easterlings – let alone so many who served Mordor for such a long time.”

 

Aragorn sighed. “Gondor is not ready for that, they have enough troubles with the people from Erech already, but… I doubt I would be ready to accept the Easterlings as well, even as I know that we need peace, that we have to find peace amongst ourselves or we will not need a Dark Lord to be the reason for the next wars.” Men needed to heal, to recover from the wounds the Shadow had dealt them and Aragorn knew that in time he would find it in himself to talk peace with the Empire, which was something other than having to deal with several legions worth of surviving Easterling dark warriors.

 

“Would you permit for them to choose another path – provided they are willing to get themselves into yet another war?” Kíli asked him, he well understood the troubles Aragorn was faced with. He was a healer and a wise man who would bring peace to the world of men in the long run, but Gondor would hardly accept a King who forgave the Easterlings. Not yet.

 

Surprised Aragorn turned to the dwarf, he had not expected the question. “You would offer them another way? Why?... One of theirs killed Thorin.”

 

“Shakurán’s son killed Thorin,” Kíli’s voice was almost even as he said it, “and from what I saw in that vision he fought bravely, honorably…” Shaking his head, Kíli looked up. “It is not the point, if I am going to free the Ironfists and the Stiffbeards I will be helping tribes who at least once handed my brother and I over to the Orcs – and I will not hold it against them anymore. It has to end – if we continue with hate and vengeance, we do not need Melkor returning from the gate of night to destroy this world.”

 

“Still – it is more than anyone should ask of you,” Aragorn remembered how long the death of his own father, a father he had never known, had affected him. His search for his father had led him into the trap in Moria. How much more did Kíli feel the pain of the loss of his family?

 

“Fate does not ask if you like what it puts on your shoulders, but it demands you bear it proudly,” Kíli’s words sounded like he was quoting someone, even as Aragorn could not place the words with any famous legend. Before he could ask Kíli had straightened up, whatever sadness there had been in his expression gone. “Two of my best friends believe in them, Aragorn – they believe there is more to the Easterlings than just the worst of dark minions and having seen Shakurán and his men during the battles, I have to agree. Maybe it is time we tried to show them the way out of the darkness – to bring them back to the free peoples of Middle Earth. Thorin once said that there was enough room in Erebor for all who would call the Mountain home, and this goes thrice for the Misty Mountains, they have room for all who are willing to help free them.”

 

Aragorn tried to imagine what Kíli might envision for the future, but he could not quite see it, maybe it was not a vision easily shared. “If they are willing to follow you, I will be glad to see them go. And I hope…” he wanted to say he hoped Kíli would never come to regret that choice, but those words were haughty. “I hope you find that home your people are still dreaming of.”

 

The three Easterlings who had been escorted to them, had listened quietly what Kíli had to say, if there was any nervousness amongst them, it did not show. When Kíli was finished, Shakurán exchanged a glance with Scyrane and Jircanór, wondering what they were thinking. Jircanor leaned back slightly, holding Kíli’s gaze. “It is a generous offer, Prince Kíli, especially if you truly are willing to allow our families to join us,” he said, speaking Westron for a change. “but why? Do not tell me it is about peace, or other noble reason – there has to be a practical reason for all this.”

 

To Shakurán’s surprise he saw Kíli unriled, he seemed unfazed by the directness. “You want a practical reason, Jircanór? There is one – numbers. The world of men is frayed from an age of strife, ask your comrade Shakurán what Eriador is like these days, and you might know what Wilderland looks like on a good day. This is supposed to become the age of Men – but if we do not do something about it, it will end up being the age of the Orcs. And I doubt you’d welcome that.”

 

Jircanor accepted the words with a nod, and then looked to Scyrane. “What do you think?” Shakurán wondered why the older warrior wanted Scyrane’s opinion but an odd kind of respect had grown between the former adversaries.

 

“I think that we always prided ourselves that we brought civilization,” Scyrane said slowly, “we pride ourselves that we tamed the East, that we founded an Empire that endured the storms of two ages. Let the Empire endure, or the Emperor be Eternal –,” Scyrane shrugged, “there is a vast land overrun by Orcs and worse, and for my part I am willing to join those who are going to bring some civilization back to that land.”

 

“Well said,” Jircanor agreed, “I am with you on that. Shakurán, you have been saying little.”

 

Shakurán was relieved to see they were open to the offer, though he was still surprised Kíli would go out of his way to aid them. “An old friend chose to join the reclaiming of the greatest kingdom of Middle Earth,” he said, thinking of Boromir and that he slowly began to understand why the Gondorian had struck up such a friendship with the dwarrow. It was a link to legend, and which Númenoran was immune to such? “And I would go with him, no matter where that leads me. I’d be glad if you were to choose the same path.”

 

“The Lord of the Morning is alive?” Scyrane asked, his voice a little shaky with surprise.

 

“He is the brother of the dwarf lord you’ll follow,” Shakurán told him dryly. “so you better believe you will have to deal with his crazy battle plans regularly from now on.” And he was sure that when these tidings reached the Empire, Jariel would let the families of the soldiers leave, glad that the Lord of the Morning was fighting a war in far-off lands and not coming after him.

 

TRB

 

The camps were packing up, ready to leave the land of Ash behind forever. The chaos was greater than usual and Kíli was grateful Dwalin had a firm hand on the entire trek. The old warmaster was unfazed by planning Drakhár and other beasts into the transport as well as horses and carts. Kíli thought of Asutri and of the news a Raven had brought from the North, his nephew was a bit exasperated Kíli would not return to the Mountain, but Erebor was in good hands with Asutri and Thorin would be happy to know that the heirs he had chosen would be the new bloodline of Erebor. Kíli was happy for that, Asutri loved Erebor, it was his home, while neither Kíli nor Anvari would ever call Erebor home. Their home lay elsewhere something beyond those heaven-assailing Mountains from whence their people had come long ago.

 

Soft steps approached, turning around he saw Russandol who had joined him. The elf was at his feet for less than two days, and he would allow now one to treat him as weak, so Kíli bit back any comment. “Your people will be marching too?” he asked, “we should have the same way until Eregion.” And Maedhros might want to hear about the captive of Ost-in-Edhil, Kíli planned on not wasting time to free Celebrimbor.

 

“That we do,” Rú watched the trek form down in the valley. “and I hear you are going to free your people and retake the Misty Mountains?”

 

“Aye, I have enough of a King of Moria named Bolg, and of his Malevolence ruling the passroads… it is time we did something about it.” Kíli knew he did not need to explain, Rú would understand.

 

The red haired elf turned his attention fully to him. “When we met in the deeps of Mount Gundabad you said something about alliances that never came around to help your people fend off the Orcs.” He observed and Kíli wondered why he would bring up the topic.

 

“I think I said that there was only one alliance with the elves that ever truly worked for us,” Kíli replied, remembering the discussion in the bowels of the Orc infested mountain. “Though I don’t know why you bring it up again.”

 

“Because that alliance is still there, if you want it,” Rú’s keen eyes held Kíli’s gaze. “your people stood by me through the worst war of my life, and I will stand by your people to free your homeland.”

 

Kíli’s eyes widened, he could hardly believe what he heard. Rú had been a friend, a mentor and always a legend… but to hear him offer help like this. “You once said you had found peace,” he said, wondering. “and that…”

 

“And that I foolishly believed it would all end soon?” Rú interrupted him. “I did. I truly believed this would be the end, a final duty, a final battle against the Shadow. Now we are here and it seems another age in Arda is our fate. If it is to mean anything at all, we should grasp this chance we were given – and that means doing more than sitting by the sea and await the end of days.”

 

Grasping the proffered hand in a warrior’s clasp Kíli sealed the alliance, he could not express what hope it filled him with. Maybe this was supposed to be the age of men, maybe they were meant to fade away and pale into myth someday, but until then they’d create a legend that would survive.

 

TRB

 

From the pass of Morannon Boromir could see the river sparkle under the warm spring sun, somewhere beyond lay Minas Tirith, awaiting her King to return. She was in good hands now and he felt no ties to her any longer. It was strange, he had never felt the distance to this land so strongly. He remembered beginning his journey, still carrying that lingering grudge with him, it was long gone, along with many doubts. A part of him knew he had never been meant to return to the White City and it was good that way.

 

Familiar steps caught up to him, Kíli was leading his horse across the pass, stopping beside him. “Need more time?” he asked, understanding in his voice.

 

Boromir looked down to Ithilien, remembering the wars fought there, battles and death, the Shadow had finally lifted and peace would come to the silent graves under the whispering trees. “No, there are no goodbyes I have to say,” he said, mounting his horse.

 

Together they rode down the Morannon pass and to the top of the long caravan on their North. Far away, against the crisp skies of late spring rose a mighty chain of mountains, dark peaks capped with ice, and though they were thousands of leagues away still, Boromir’s heart sang with their sight – he was going home.

 

_Come take a seat and I will recite you a tale_

_Of bold adventure spanning both sides of the veil_

_I knew a champion, we travelled far and wide_

_We saw so many wonders roving side by side._

_(Miracle of Sound: Age of the Dragon)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we come to the end of our long journey. Honestly, when I started this story arc, I had never imagined it would be so long, let alone so complicated. I want to thank all of you who have written to me, shared thoughts, ideas and critique. You encouraged me to go on and it was fun to read your speculations and suggestions. YOU ALL ROCK!
> 
> The incredible ScribeofRed has taken it upon herself to start a major editing of the entire arc with me – and while it will take some time to complete that project (should I mention that the story grows longer in the edit?) I would welcome any comments and critique you might have. However – I will not adjust “Durin’s Bane” to the new movie coming out. From Carrock on it is my AU entirely. 
> 
> Many readers have asked for sidestories, the tale of the three swords, the “Memoirs of a Dwarven Mercenary”, the story of Moria retaken, or of Kíli the Wanderer… I really will need to see what inspiration comes to mind, I plan on a few more outtakes, because there are some stories to tell. (I would love to tell the entire story of Rú, Canó and actually what happened in Sirion, but I’d need re-read the Silmarillion twice to avoid timeline mistakes.). While it will feel strange to not having a chapter ahead of me each day, it might need some time before I decide on my next writing project.
> 
> Special thanks to LadyDunla and Harrlee94 who put up with my writing speed, continuous weird mistakes and crazy ideas. Thank you and *hugs*
> 
> Valandhir

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer
> 
> This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using characters from the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings world, which is trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien. All characters created and owned by Tolkien INC, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Middle Earth. The story I tell here is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.R.R. Tolkien's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I am grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for his wonderful stories about Middle Earth, for without his books, my story would not exist.


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